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fj.  Aé^^y^ix^ 


/t/uJ^/c^yi^i-^}'--/Ui'     ùy.- 


ESSAYS 


ON 


English  Literature 


BY 

EDMOND    SCHERER 


TRANSLATED  BY 

GEORGE    SAINTSBURY 


I. 


S^UFOHH\t: 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1891 

[AH  rights  reserved"] 


^o6«5 


COPYRIGHT,    189I,   BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


PREFACE 

When  I  was  asked  by  Mr.  Stuart  Eeid — to 
whom  M.  Scherer  himself  had  some  years  ago 
indicated  the  essays  in  which  he  would  like  to 
be  presented  to  the  English  public  —  whether  I 
would  undertake  the  present  book,  I  was  pleased 
with  the  commission  for  three  reasons,  two  private 
and  one  public.  In  the  first  place,  translation, 
though  there  has  been  some  dispute  as  to  its  effect 
on  the  reader,  is  most  undoubtedly  good  for  the 
soul  of  the  translator,  especially  if  he  be  a  critic 
by  profession.  Nothing  creates,  and  nothing  main- 
tains, that  sense  of  difference  as  between  language 
and  language,  which  is  one  of  the  most  important 
points  in  criticism,  so  well  as  the  effort  to  transfer 
the  effect  of  one  into  the  other.  In  the  second  place 
it  had  so  happened  that  M.  Scherer,  not  very  long 
before  his  own  death,  had  written  at  some  length 
a  criticism  of  a  work  of  my  own,  which  I  think 
I  may  describe  at  once  naturally  and  suJ0B.ciently 
by  saying  that  it  did  not  strike  my  perhaps  prej- 


/ 


VI  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

udiced  eyes  as  the  happiest  instance  of  his  critical 
powers.  Now  I  should  certainly  have  preferred 
that  M.  Scherer  should  praise  me.  "Every  fellow," 
as  we  know,  "  likes  a  hand."  And  I  do  not  know 
that  I  can  plead  guilty  to  the  charge  of  being 
pigeon-livered  and  lacking  gall.  But  I  had  under- 
stood, years  before,  the  differences  in  point  of 
view,  in  taste,  and  so  forth,  which  not  only  made  it 
impossible  for  M.  Scherer  to  sympathize  with  my 
criticism  of  the  literature  of  his  own  language, 
but  made  it  even  possible  for  him,  a  most  accurate 
and  conscientious  critic,  to  some  extent  to  misrep- 
resent it.  Tout  comprendre  (as  we  also  know)  c^est 
tout  pardonner.  And  consequently  I  was  very  glad 
to  have  an  opportunity  of  raising  a  little  pile  of 
coals  of  fire  on  M.  Scherer's  defunct  head;  an 
occupation  as  interesting  to  the  man  of  humor  as 
it  is  creditable  in  the  eyes  of  the  philosopher  and 
the  divine. 

But  neither  of  these  reasons  would  have  induced 
me  to  undertake  a  task  which,  however  useful  it 
may  be  as  an  exercise  and  agreeable  as  a  revanche, 
is  much  more  troublesome  than  original  compo- 
sition, if  I  had  not  also  thought  that  such  well- 
nourished  and  robust  criticism  as  M.  Scherer's  is 


PEEFACE  Vii 

particularly  suited  for  English  reading  at  the 
present  day.  This  criticism  is  not  faultless,  and 
I  have  in  the  introduction  thought  it  the  best 
compliment  I  could  pay  to  point  out  its  faults 
as  well  as  to  acknowledge  its  merits.  But  these 
merits  are  such  as  particularly  suit  our  present 
condition.  There  is  a  real  interest,  if  not  always 
an  interest  according  to  knowledge,  in  literature 
among  us.  The  way  in  which  almost  anybody 
who  will  speak  as  one  having  authority  on  literary 
questions  is  followed,  the  audience  given  to  lectur- 
ers on  the  subject,  even  the  somewhat  comical 
institution  of  Societies,  and  such  like  crutches  for 
cripples,  are  evidences  of  the  fact.  But  the  inter- 
est is  too  often  divorced  from  thorough  knowledge 
—  seems,  indeed,  sometimes  as  if  it  would  try  to 
occupy  the  place  of  knowledge  —  and  the  authori- 
tative exponents  are  not  always  careful  so  to 
qualify  themselves  as  to  make  up  for  the  short- 
comings of  their  disciples.  Dogmatism  without 
reading  at  the  back  of  it,  aesthetic  eccentricities 
without  reading  at  the  back  of  them,  are  not 
exactly  unknown  among  the  critics  of  to-day  in 
England.  Now  for  such  things,  M.  Scherer's  criti- 
cism  is   a   very   powerful   corrective.     When  Mr. 


viii         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

Matthew  Arnold  praised  it,  I  think  he  was  a  little 
bribed,  as  we  are  all  apt  to  be,  by  the  fact  that 
it  was  so  different  in  form  and  style  from  his  own 
that  the  two,  to  a  certain  extent,  set  off  and  set 
out  each  other.  But  that  it  needs  no  illegitimate 
or  at  least  adventitious  advantage  of  this  kind  the 
examples  which  follow  will  show  ;  and  I  hope 
that  the  introductory  essay  will  at  least  not  inter- 
fere with  the  presentment.  When  M.  Scherer  was 
approached  by  Mr.  E-eid  on  the  subject,  he  said, 
I  am  told,  "  Why  should  I  pour  my  little  pailful 
into  the  ocean  of  English  literature  ?  "  The  meta- 
phor was  modest  but  not  exact.  I  think  it  will  be 
found  that  the  *'pail"  was  rather  used  in  drawing, 
from  no  common  depths,  samples  of  that  literature 
to  be  analyzed  with  no  common  science. 

It  may  be  well  to  say  that  the  essays  are  here 
taken  from  the  volumes  of  M.  Scherer's  "  Etudes 
sur  la  Littérature  Contemporaine,"  and  are  placed 
in  the  order  in  which  they  occur  in  those  vol- 
umes, references  to  the  original  being  given  in  the 
contents.  That  they  are  sometimes  dated,  and 
sometimes  not,  is  in  strict  observance  of  the 
author's  own  practice.  His  notes  are  given  with- 
out any  indication  ;  my  own,  which  I  have  made  as 


PREFACE  IX 

few  as  possible,  are  bracketed  and  signed  "  Trans.^' 
I  should,  perh.aps,  add  that  I  have  exercised  a 
certain  discretion  in  inserting  or  omitting  pas- 
sages from  his  authors  which  M.  Scherer  gave 
sometimes  in  the  original,  sometimes  translated. 
They  appear  wherever  they  are  necessary  for  the 
comprehension  of  the  text  ;  where  they  are  merely 
illustrative  or  exemplary  I  have  economized  space 
by  omitting  them.  Sometimes  M.  Scherer  allowed 
himself  a  certain  liberty  of  compression  or  para- 
phrase, and  in  such  cases  I  have  generally  restored 
the  original  or  omitted  the  citation,  inasmuch  as 
a  literal  retranslation  could  serve  no  purpose  for 
English  readers.  But  once  or  twice,  where  I  could 
not  hit  on  the  exact  passage  cited,  I  have  so 
retranslated.  I  have  only  to  add  that  I  have  stuck 
as  close  to  my  original  as  was  possible.  M.  Scherer, 
though  writing  strong,  correct,  and  dignified 
French,  very  seldom  '•  sacrificed  to  the  Graces  " — 
an  aged  phrase  which  has,  I  think,  a  new,  a  special, 
and  a  rather  humorous  application  to  critical  fine- 
writing —  and  it  was  therefore  deemed  to  be,  not 
only  unnecessary,  but  in  bad  taste  to  trick  or 
frounce  him  in  English.  Xor  have  I  endeavored 
entirely  to  obliterate  the  Gallic  forms  and  flavors 


X  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

of  the  original.  Unless  I  am  mistaken,  a  trans- 
lator, thougli  he  should  never  write  what  is  not 
the  language  into  which  he  is  translating,  should, 
in  such  a  case  as  this,  aim  at  conveying  to  those 
who  ex  hypothesi  cannot  read  the  language  from 
which  he  translates  some  gust  of  its  own  savor. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

Introduction xiii 

I.     George  Eliot  — "Silas  Marner"  {Études  sur 

la  Littérature  Contemporaine,  vol.  i.) 
II.     John  Stuart  Mill  {Ibid.  vol.  i.) 

III.  Shablespeare  (Ibid.  vol.  iii.) 

IV.  George     Eliot — "Daniel  Deronda"     {Ibid 

vol.  V.) 

V.     Taine's    History    of    English    Literature 

{Ibid.  vol.  vi.)  .... 
VI.     Shakespeare  and  Criticism  {Ibid.  vol.  vi.) 
^  VII.     Milton  and  "  Paradise  Lost  "  {Ibid.  vol.  vi.), 
Vni.     Laurence   Sterne,  or  the   Humorist   {Ibid 

vol.  vi.) 

IX.     Wordsworth  {Ibid.  vol.  vii.)     . 
X.     Thomas  Carlyle  {Ibid.  vol.  vii.) 
XI.     "  Endymion  "  (7Z>2fZ.  vol.  vii.)     . 
XII.     George  Eliot  {Ibid.  vol.  viii.)  . 


1 
13 

36 

51 

70 

96 

111 

150 
174 
226 
230 
251 


zi 


INTRODUCTION 

The  life  of  Edmond  Scherer,  who  was  born  in 
April  of  the  Waterloo  year  and  died  in  jVIarch 
1889,  was  a  pretty  long  one,  and  it  was,  as  regards 
occupations  and  interests,  rather  curiously  divided 
into  two  widely  separated  parts.  During  about 
thirty  years  —  from  the  age  of  fifteen  to  the  age  of 
forty-five  —  almost  all  M.  Scherer's  thoughts  and 
studies  were  directed  to  theology  :  first  of  all  in 
the  mood  of  boyish  doubt,  then  for  many  years  in 
that  of  fervent  faith,  then  in  that  of  rationalizing 
but  still  confident  criticism,  and  lastly  in  an  active 
and  rather  painful  polemic  on  what  may  be  called 
offensive-defensive  lines  in  regard  to  his  own  com- 
plete though  gradual  abandonment  of  definite  theo- 
logical belief.  After  these  jars  ceased  thirty  other 
years  were  occupied  in  literary  and  political  jour- 
nalism, and  (after  the  war  of  1870)  in  active  parti- 
cipation in  politics.  The  first  period  left  an  inef- 
faceable impression  on  the  last,  but  the  hast  period 
cannot  be  said  to  have  been  in  any  respect  prophe- 
sied by  the  first.  And  I  do  not  think  it  superfluous 
or  uncritical  to  observe  that,  excellent  judge  as  M. 
Scherer  was  of  literature,  and,  in  the  main,  acute 
and  sensible  as  were  his  views  on  politics,  criticism, 

xiii 


XIV  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

both  literary  and  political,  was  to  him  something 
of  a  pis  aller.  It  was  only  when  he  was  driven 
from  his  theological  studies  that  he  resorted  to 
these  others  —  to  speak  fancifully,  they  were  a 
sort  of  reverse  cloister  to  which  he  turned  weary 
of  things  divine,  as  others  have  sought  the  real 
cloister  weary  of  things  worldly.  And  though  he 
certainly  never  indulged  in,  and  has,  I  think  in  one 
of  the  very  essays  here  translated,  spoken  scorn- 
fully of,  the  habit  of  whining  over  lost  faith,  a 
kind  of  nostalgia  of  his  first  loves  and  first  studies 
always  clung  to  him.  We  can  trace  the  theologian 
within  the  publicist,  the  preacher  underneath  the 
historian  of  so  unexpected  a  hero  as  "Tyran  le 
Blanc,"  and  the  critic  of  Fromentin  or  of  Baude- 
laire. 

The  remarkable  knowledge  of  English  literature 
and  the  English  language  which  the  contents  of 
this  book  display  did  not  come  to  M.  Scherer  by 
accident,  nor  can  it  be  said  to  have  been  merely 
the  result  of  deliberate  and  personal  fancy.  He 
was  on  his  father's  side  descended  from  a  Swiss 
family  which  had  been  settled  in  France  for  about 
a  century,  but  his  mother  was  an  Englishwoman. 
Moreover,  when  he  was  about  sixteen,  and  was,  as 
became  a  schoolboy  of  sixteen  in  1831,  inclined  to 
Deism,  self-destruction,  and  general  despair,  he 
was  sent  to  England  to  board  with  a  certain  Eev. 
Thomas  Loader  at  Monmouth.     M.  Gréard's  ^  per- 

1  Every  writer  on  M.  Scherer  must  acknowledge  indebtedness 
to  M.  Octave  Greard's  Edmond  Scherer  (Paris,  1890). 


INTRODUCTION  XV 

haps  pardonable  ignorance  of  Englisli  ecclesiastical 
matters  makes  Ms  account  of  this  sojourn  rather 
vague,  but  it  seems  most  probable  (I  have  no 
positive  information)  that  the  "  Eev."  Mr.  Loader 
belonged  to  some  Dissenting  sect.  However  this 
may  be,  it  is  certain  that  he  not  only  kept  his 
pupil  hard  at  work,  but  induced  in  him  a  fervent 
and,  notwithstanding  the  final  catastrophe,  a  solidly 
founded  piety.  When  Edmond  returned  to  Paris 
he  studied  law  to  please  his  family  and  philosophy 
to  please  himself.  But  he  was  resolved  to  become 
a  pastor,  and  in  his  twenty-first  year  he  obtained 
permission  to  study  theology  at  Strasburg.  He 
took  his  degrees,  married  early,  and  was  ordained  in 
April  1840,  being  then  a  pronounced  and  thorough 
believer  in  "l'autorité  de  la  Bible  et  de  la  Croix." 
He  tarried,  however,  for  several  years  longer  in 
Strasburg,  and  he  does  not  seem  to  have  under- 
taken any  directly  pastoral  work,  though  he 
preached  and  wrote  hymns  with  much  unction. 
In  1845,  I  think,  he  was  appointed  to  a  professor- 
ship in  the  Ecole  Libre  de  Théologie  at  Geneva  and 
embarked,  still  in  full  confidence,  on  a  course  of 
teaching  designed  to  establish  and  defend  a  sort  of 
orthodox  Protestanism,  not  admitting  any  ecclesi- 
astical tradition,  but  solely  founded  on  the  Bible. 
I  have  neither  room  nor  desire  to  trace  at  length 
what  followed,  nor  does  it  concern  us  much.  I 
need  only  say  that  the  result  was  what  it  was,  to 
any  person   having   some   tincture   of   theological 


XVI         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

study  and  some  knowledge  of  human  nature,  certain 
to  be  in  the  case  of  a  restless  and  inquiring  spirit, 
impatient  of  compromise,  rejecting  ab  initio  the 
idea  of  the  Church  as  tlie  supernaturally  appointed 
depository  of  su})ernatural  truth,  and,  indeed,  insist- 
ing generally  that  the  supernatural  shall  allow 
itself  to  be  treated  as  if  it  were  not  supernatural. 
By  degrees  Scherer's  theology  grew  more  and  more 
"  free,"  less  and  less  orthodox.  But  the  "complete 
theological  shipwreck,"  as  he  has  called  it  himself 
in  another  case,  was  not  reached  in  less  than  fifteen 
years  ;  and  it  was  not  till  1860  or  1861  that  he 
made,  as  M.  Gréard  says,  his  "profession  de  foi 
hégélienne,"  in  which  I  should  myself  see  less  of 
Hegelianism  positive  than  of  anti-supernaturalism 
negative.  For  the  rest  of  his  life  M.  Scherer  clung, 
indeed,  to  the  Hegelian  doctrine  of  the  relativity  of 
all  things,  and  carried  on  a  truceless  war  with  the 
Ding  an  sicJi.  But  he  had  nothing  in  his  nature  of 
the  transcendentalism  with  which  Hegel  himself 
was  still  penetrated,  and  which  unites  him  to  the 
great  succession  of  critical  Pantheists.  I  am  not 
here  reviewing  him  from  the  philosophical  stand- 
point, though  it  might  be  interesting  to  do  so.  The 
important  thing  for  us  is  to  remember  that  we 
have  in  the  literary  critic  whom  we  are  to  survey  a 
naufragé,  a  man  who  has  distinctly  taken  refuge 
in  another  employment  from  the  employment  to 
which  he  had  at  first  given  himself.  Unless  this  is 
remembered  man}''  points  in  M.  Scherer's  attitude, 


INTEODUCTION  XVll 

both  to  politics  and  to  literature — his  two  interests 
thenceforward  —  will  remain  dark  to  us,  while  if 
it  be  remembered  these  things  will,  I  think,  become 
reasonably  plain. 

To  return  to  the  course  of  M.  Scherer's  life,  the 
last  thirty  years,  or  nearly  so,  give  us  Paris  for 
scene,  and  literature  and  politics  for  subjects.  The 
"  Eevue  des  deux  Mondes  "  was  not  shut  to  M. 
Scherer,  but  almost  the  whole  of  his  work  in  both 
departments  was  given  to  the  "  Temps,"  then  under 
the  direction  of  M.  Xefftzer,  who  was  akin  to  him 
in  race  and  general  sentiments.  The  character  of 
this  paper  was  very  mainly  formed  and  settled  by 
M.  Scherer's  collaboration.  He  was  a  very  active 
journalist,  though  he  was  not,  I  believe,  obliged 
to  write  in  order  to  live  ;  and  it  may  very  likely  be 
that  his  literary  activity  was  spurred  as  well  by 
some  domestic  troubles  (of  which  we  hear  dimly) 
as  by  the  necessity  of  making  good  the  lost  ideals. 
He  had,  as  it  were,  at  once  summed  up  and  said 
good-bye  to  his  interest  in  religious  subjects  proper 
in  his  "  Mélanges  d'Histoire  Eéligieuse."  Later  he 
contributed  (I  believe  in  English,  which  he  wrote 
excellently)  to  the  "Daily  Xews  "  on  French  politics. 
This  matter,  which  again  would  interest  me  very 
much,  again  does  not  concern  us  directly  here.  He 
began  as  a  moderate  and  rational  opponent  of  the 
Empire.  Against  this  he  carried  on  a  war  at  once 
vigorous  and  free  from  the  mere  fronde  to  which 
men   of   purely   Erench  blood  are   so   liable,  and 


Xviii       ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

which  not  uucommonly  ends  in  such  lamentable 
things  as  the  fate  of  his  friend  Prévost  Paradol. 
Put  in  politics,  as  previously  in  religion,  M.  Scherer 
exhibited  certain  weaknesses,  for  preservation 
from  which  those  who  have  escaped  them  should 
rather  thank  their  good  fortune  than  their  merits. 
During  the  war  he  was  called  upon  to  play  a  most 
difficult  part,  and  played  it  in  a  manner  which 
cannot  be  too  much  admired,  especially  when  we 
remember  that  he  was  a  literary  recluse,  fifty- 
five  years  old,  and  with  very  little  experience  of 
business.  He,  who  never  feared  anything,  was 
the  last  man  likely  to  be  a  pantouflard,  and  to 
contemplate  the  agony  of  France  from  the  safe 
seclusion  of  Geneva  or  London.  Put  it  could 
scarcely  have  been  anticipated  that  he  would 
take  up  and  discharge  to  admiration  the  hard 
and  hateful  duty  of  administering  the  affairs  of 
Versailles  (his  place  of  residence)  during  the 
German  occupation.  He  seems  to  have  done 
this  necessary  and  odious  work  with  the  most 
admirable  good  sense  and  fortitude,  standing 
between  his  countrymen  and  the  invaders  and 
being  proof  alike  against  the  unreasonable  sensi- 
tiveness of  the  former  and  the  inconsiderate 
roughness  of  the  latter.  Such  work  is  not  always 
rewarded,  but  it  speaks  much  for  M.  Scherer's 
townsmen  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  department 
of  Seine-et-Oise  generally  that  when  the  peace 
came  they  at  once  selected  him  to  represent  them. 


INTEODUCTIOX  XIX 

He  very  soon  became  a  life  Senator  and  retained 
the  position  till  his  death.  He  was  a  member  of  the 
Centre  —  rather  of  the  Centre  Gauche  than  other- 
wise, but  still  centrical.  And  yet  at  the  same  time, 
though  universal  suffrage  is  simply  the  be-all  and 
end-all  of  the  Government  which  he  supported,  and 
of  which,  in  a  way,  he  formed  part,  he  grew  more 
and  more  disgusted  with  it.  Almost  at  the  open- 
ing of  his  literary  career,  in  an  article  here  trans- 
lated, he  had  —  rather  hastily,  I  think  —  given  his 
own  case  away  by  declaring  the  logical  necessity  of 
this  arrangement.  But  he  had  at  the  same  time 
manifested  a  strong  objection  to  its  practical 
results.  The  acknowledgment  weakened  as  time 
went  on  and  the  objections  strengthened  till  but 
a  very  few  years  ago  he  published  some  positive 
jeremiads  on  the  subject  j  yet  he  always  declared 
himself  a  Eepublican.  Here,  too,  we  may  observe 
some  peculiarities  which  will  be  of  service  to  us 
in  our  investigation  proper  —  the  investigation  to 
which  we  must  now  turn  —  of  M.  Scherer's  position 
as  a  literary  critic.  As  we  noted  that  his  theolog- 
ical studies  and  his  relinquishment  of  them  had 
given  a  color  to  his  work  and  impressed  on  it,  what 
he  would  himself  call  "preoccupations" — a  tendency 
to  subordinate  form  to  matter,  a  distinct  inclina- 
tion to  the  heresy  of  enseignement,  and  a  certain 
tone  of  bitterness  —  so  it  is  observable  that  his 
political  disillusions  reacted  on  his  literary  judg- 
ments.    He  could  not  believe  in  progress,  and  he 


XX  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

would  not  believe  in  reaction,  so  that  if  it  were 
worth  wliilc  a  parcel  of  the  most  curiously  contra- 
dictory judgments  on  all  subjects  in  which  these 
two  things  are  concerned  might  be  produced  from 
him. 

We  must  now  go  back  a  little,  and  imagine  him 
a  man  of  forty-five,  setting  out  in  the  year  1860, 
or  thereabouts,  on  his  career  of  literary  critic.  He 
had  for  thirty  years  been  an  omnivorous  student, 
though  not  in  every  direction.  Keaders  of  him 
must  have  observed  (what  M.  Gréard,  I  think, 
admits)  that  either  his  knowledge  of  or  his  incli- 
nation to  classical  and  mediaeval  literature  was 
somewhat  lacking  in  width  and  depth.  He  is  said 
to  have  studied  scholastic  philosophy,  but  I  do 
not  see  many  signs  of  it,  and  I  should  imagine 
that  it  must  have  been  exclusively  from  the  theo- 
logical side.  Even  the  earlier  Kenaissance  appears 
to  have  had  few  attractions  for  him,  and  it  is  only 
from  the  seventeenth  century  onward  that  he  is 
really  at  home  with  literature.  He  knew  —  a  very 
rare  thing  with  Frenchmen  even  now,  and  much 
rarer  then  —  English  and  German,  the  literatures 
and  the  languages,  very  nearly  as  well  as  he  knew 
French,  and  w^as  even  more  thoroughly  at  home 
with  them.  I  have  sometimes  thought,  perhaps 
wickedly,  that  his  declaration  of  love  for  Eacine 
and  some  other  specially  French  authors,  though 
no  doubt  quite  honest  (M.  Scherer  was  nothing  if 
not   honest),  had  a  certain  unconscious  touch  of 


INTRODUCTION  XXI 

affiche  in  it.  But  he  knew  French  literature  of 
the  last  three  centuries  thoroughly,  and  he  had  a 
most  pure  and  correct  taste  in  it,  while  his  famil- 
iarity with  the  other  literatures  gave  him  that 
power  of  comparison  which  Frenchmen  have  so 
frequently  lacked.  His  knowledge  was  extremely 
exact  and  his  acuteness  (where  he  did  not  go 
wrong  for  reasons  presently  to  be  mentioned,  in 
which  case  he  never  came  right)  was  extraordi- 
nary. Above  all,  he  had  the  healthy  mania  of 
always  trying  to  bring  his  critical  conclusions 
under  some  general  law  :  he  was  never  satisfied 
with  informing  the  world  that  he  liked  this,  and 
did  not  like  that.  He  never  (at  any  rate  in  im- 
portant cases)  concluded  from  his  ignorance  to 
someone  else's  knowledge,  and,  above  all,  and  first 
of  all,  he  never  made  criticism  an  occasion  for 
cracking  epigrams  or  unfurling  fine  writing.  It  is 
impossible  to  read  a  criticism  of  M.  Scherer's,  even 
when  one  most  disagrees  v/ith  it,  without  being 
informed,  exercised,  "breathed,"  as  our  fathers 
would  have  said.  It  may  not  be  amusing,  it  may 
be  irritating  ;  you  may  think  that  you  could  upset 
it  beautifully  ;  but  if  you  know  enough  about  the 
subject  yourself  to  be  able  to  see  knowledge  where 
it  exists  you  never  can  pronounce  it  unimportant. 
And  there  is  so  much  criticism  which  crackles  to 
deafening  wdth  epigram,  which  blazes  to  dazzling 
with  epithet,  which  amuses  even  while  irritating, 
and  which  yet  is,  alack  !  absolutely  unimportant. 


XXU        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLTSII   LITERATURE 

The  drawbacks  of  jNL  Scherer's  criticism  were 
summed  up  not  long  ago  in  a  really  brilliant  mot 
by  a  writer  of  the  new  French  school,  for  whom, 
on  the  whole,  M.  Scherer  had  a  much  greater  ad- 
miration than  I  have  myself,  and  who  was  in  many 
respects  in  sympathy  with  him.  "II  ne  jugeait 
pas  les  écrits,"  says  M.  Edouard  Rod,  "  avec  son 
intelligence  ;  il  les  jugeait  avec  son  caractère."  I 
am  not  at  all  fond  of  critical  fireworks,  but  this  is 
not  a  firework,  it  is  a  lamp.  Intelligence  adapts 
itself,  character  does  not;  intelligence  is  chari- 
table, character  is  apt  to  be  a  little  Pharisaic  ; 
intelligence  has  no  prejudice,  character  has  much. 
It  was  probably  to  some  extent  because  he  did  not 
take  to  literary  criticism  till  so  late  in  life  that 
M.  Scherer  manifested  the  raideur  with  which  he 
has  often  been  charged  ;  it  was  no  doubt  also 
partly  because  of  those  vicissitudes  and  experi- 
ences of  soul  which  have  been  briefly  noticed. 
But  there  must  have  been  in  it  much  of  personal 
idiosyncrasy.  We  hear  early  of  the  "  effet  pénible 
et  angoissant  que  font  sur  cet  aimable  Scherer  les 
nouvelles  connaissances,"  and  the  amiable  lady 
who  wrote  this  had  cause  to  know  it.  She  had 
gone  to  meet  him  w^hen  he  came  on  a  preaching 
errand  and  found  him  "un  jeune  homme  d'un 
abord  glacial"  who  got  into  the  carriage  "sans 
répondre  à  mon  accueil"  (this,  w^e  may  trust,  was 
not  set  down  to  the  tenue  britannique  with  which 
he   was   also   credited).      Many   years   afterwards 


INTRODUCTION  XXlll 

most  friendly  critics  have   expressed  tlieir  regret 
tliat  Scherer  did  not  mix  more  with  younger  men 
of  letters.     One  of  the  few  unpublished  personal 
stories  I  have  ever  heard  of  him  was  to  the  effect 
that  a  very  few  years  ago,  when  he  was  in  a  Lon- 
don drawing-room,  a  fellow  guest  came  up  to  the 
host  and  said,  "  Who  is  that  Scotch  clergyman  ?  " 
All  his  life,  except  to  a  few  very  intimate  friends, 
he  seems  to  have  been  more  imposing  than  attrac- 
tive, and  the  same  may  be  said  of   his  criticism. 
M.  Kod,  who  is,  as  I  have  said,  a  witness  above 
suspicion,  records  and  deplores  the  small  practical 
effect  which  this  criticism  had,  and  the   kind  of 
resentment  with  which  it  was  received.     One  very 
amiable  and  accomplished  French  man  of  letters 
spoke  of  his  fiel  Protestant.     I  remember  a  legend 
set  afloat  by  someone  of  the  opposite  school  that 
a   practical  joker   once  went  round   to  the  book- 
sellers saying  that  he  was  a  collector  of  second  edi- 
tions,   and    wished    for    copies    of    M.    Scherer's 
"  Études  "  in  that  state,  which  nobody  could  give 
him.     It  is   certain  that  these  "Études,"  though 
containing    by   far   the   most   valuable    corpus   of 
criticism  which  France  has  produced  since  Sainte- 
Beuve's  ''  Causeries,"  and  superior,  if  bulk,  range, 
and  value   be   taken   together,  to  anything   to  be 
found  in  English  literature  for  many  years  past, 
have   never   been   widely  popular.     Probably   the 
sale  of  the  whole  nine  volumes  has  not  equalled 
that  of  a  single  one  of  some  of  the  collections  of 


XXIV      ESSAYS   ON   ENGLTSFI   LITEIIATUKE 

clever  froth  which,  in  M.  Scherer's  own  latter 
days  and  since,  have  caught  the  taste  of  French- 
men and  of  those  Englishmen  who  think  that  to 
admire  the  latest  French  thing  is  to  be  dans  le 
mouvement,  and  not  to  admire  that  thing  is  to  be 
out  of  it. 

As  our  chief  business  is  with  M.  Scherer's  essays 
in  English  literature,  it  may  be  well  to  go  through 
the  essays  here  translated  before  resuming  their 
author's  critical  position  in  general.  Some  of  them 
are  already  well  known  in  England  by  the  eulogies 
of  Mr.  ^latthew  Arnold  ;  all  deserve,  I  think,  to 
be  very  well  known  indeed.  Their  excellence 
increases  as  they  go  on  both  in  writing  and  in 
matter.  But  they  are  all  good,  and  what  may  be 
especially  praised  in  them  is  the  admirable  critical 
summaries  —  much  resembling  those  of  Jeffrey,  a 
critic  who  had  many  points  of  contact  with  M. 
Scherer  —  of  different  periods  of  English  literature. 

The  apparent  disproportion  of  the  space  given  to 
George  Eliot  is,  now  that  the  essays  are  collected, 
likely  to  strike  most  people,  especially  since  the 
somewhat  extravagant  estimate  of  the  author  of 
"Adam  Bede"  which  was  common  some  years  ago 
among  "thoughtful"  Englishmen  and  foreigners 
has  subsided,  as,  indeed,  is  usual  in  such  cases,  to 
a  point  perhaps  almost  as  far  below  the  just  level 
as  the  excess  was  above  it.  It  is  the  very  last 
secret  of  criticism,  the  degree  which  few  critics 
reach,    to   be   as   independent   of    the   charms    of 


INTRODUCTION  XXV 

novelty  as  of  those  of  antiquity,  and  to  look  at 
things  new  and  things  old  from  the  combined 
standpoint  which  things  old  and  new  together  give. 
But  it  must  always  be  counted  to  M.  Scherer  that 
in  the  later  essays  —  that  on  "  Deronda  "  and  the 
final  one  on  the  "  Biography  "  —  he  retracted  not 
a  little,  or,  to  speak  more  justly,  readjusted  to 
sounder  standards,  a  good  deal  of  the  rather  effu- 
sive and  uncritical  laudation  of  the  paper  which 
opens  this  volume.  It  was,  indeed,  impossible 
that  he  should  not  somewhat  overvalue  a  writer 
whose  mental  history  was  in  so  many  respects 
identical  with  his  own,  and  whose  final  standpoint 
(though  he  has  indicated  the  interval  very  subtly 
and  accurately  in  the  last  essay)  was  so  near 
his.  The  weak  point  in  both,  (and  this,  naturally 
enough,  he  has  not  indicated),  was  an  insufficient 
devotion  to  the  great  god  Nonsense,  whether  in  his 
Avatar  of  Frivolity  or  in  his  Avatar  of  Passion. 
They  could  neither  of  them  conjugate  the  verb 
desipere;  the  delights  of  hearing  the  chimes  at 
midnight  in  the  full  metaphorical  sense  were  shut  off 
from  them  ;  they  had  no  fine  madness.  They  were 
both  (it  is  needless  to  say  it  in  George  Eliot's 
case  to  an  English  audience,  but  it  may  be  con- 
fidently affirmed  of  M.  Scherer  also)  susceptible 
enousrh  to  certain  kinds  of  wit  and  to  certain  kinds 
of  humor  ;  while  one  of  them,  as  we  know,  could 
create  both  humor  and  wit  of  those  kinds.  But 
M.    Scherer   has    wonderingly   commented   on  the 


XXvi       ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

iiiilucid  interval  of  this  susceptibility  in  which 
George  Eliot  wrote  "Daniel  Deronda/'  and  he  has 
shown  a  similar  eclipse  in  his  own  case  in  the 
blind  ferocity  with  which  he  attacked  lîaudelaire. 
Yet  tlds  very  community  of  defects,  as  of  qualities, 
constitutes,  of  course,  a  security  for  mutual  under- 
standing, and  it  is  nearly  impossible  that  any 
better  criticism  of  George  Eliot  — from  the  sym- 
pathetic side,  yet  not  idolatrous  —  shall  be  written 
than  that  contained  in  this  volume.  There  is 
much  to  add,  no  doubt,  from  the  unfavorable  side, 
but  that  can  be  easily  done. 

The  second  essay  —  that  on  ]\Iill  —  is  particularly 
interesting,  because  it  was  Avritten  at  a  time  and 
from  a  point  of  view  which  are  not  recoverable 
except  by  a  tour  de  force  of  critical  translation  of 
one's  self  into  other  circumstances.  There  was 
no  reason,  political,  religious,  or,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, philosophical  (for  M.  Scherer's  Hegelianism 
always  had  a  touch  of  Scoto-French  experience- 
doctrine  in  it),  why  author  and  critic  should  not 
be  in  touch  with  each  other.  But,  little  of  a  Mill- 
ite  as  I  am  myself,  I  should  say  that  ^I.  Scherer 
is,  if  anything,  rather  less  than  more  just  to  Mill. 
It  would  be  curious  if,  as  I  half  think,  this  falling 
short  of  justice  is  due  to  the  fact  that  Mill  had 
never  gone  through  M.  Scherer's  own  soul-history, 
while  George  Eliot  had.  But  it  must  also  be  re- 
membered that  at  this  time  the  future  Senator  was 
only  beginning   his   purely  political   studies.     He 


E^TKODUCTIOX  XXvii 

came   much,   nearer  afterwards   to   some  views  of 
^Mill's  which  he  here  seems  but  half  to  relish. 

Of  the  two  Shakespeare  essays  the  first  is  beyond 
all  question  the  weaker,  though  they  must  have 
been  written  very  much  at  the  same  time,  consider- 
able as  is  the  gap  which  it  pleased  M.  Scherer  to 
set  between  them  in  the  order  of  republication. 
It  is  fair,  however,  to  observe  that  it  is  in  some 
sense  a  preliminary  dissertation,  a  sort  of  getting 
over  of  the  facts  and  history  of  the  subject  before 
tackling  the  strictly  critical  work.  The  second, 
the  '•'  peg  ''  of  which  is  the  Shakespearophobia  of 
the  excellent  Herr  Eiimelin,  is  one  of  the  best 
examples  of  M.  Scherer^s  critical  grasp.  Its  sur- 
vey of  the  successive  attitudes  of  German  Shakes- 
peare-criticism may  be  vulnerable  in  parts  —  it  is 
the  way  of  these  surveys  to  be  so  and  therefore, 
tempting  as  they  are,  both  for  display  of  skill  and 
for  the  pleasure  there  is  in  doing  them,  some 
critics  are  rather  shy  of  the  indulgence.  But  this 
is  one  of  the  best  of  the  kind — full  of  knowledge 
easily  borne  and  well  digested,  and  written  with  a 
maestria  which  never  becomes  ostentation  or  vir- 
tuosity. In  ends,  indeed,  with  a  sort  of  false  note, 
or,  rather,  an  equivocal  use  of  terms.  To  make 
Goethe,  while  inferior  to  Shakespeare  on  the  w^hole, 
superior  to  him  in  universality  may  seem  at  first 
sight,  in  the  literal  sense,  preposterous.  But  a 
moment's  thought  will  show  that  ]\I.  Scherer  was 
using  "universal"  in  a  special  sense,  was  referring, 


XXviii      ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

not  to  nature,  but  to  the  encyclopaedia.  In  the 
main  no  man  has  ever  l)een  sounder  on  Shake- 
speare than  he,  and  that  is  the  articulus  stantis  aut 
cadentis  criticismi. 

The  sixth  volume  of  the  "  Études  '*  (we  have 
spoken  of  the  essay  on  *'  Daniel  Deronda,'-  which, 
though  much  later  in  date  than  those  of  which  we 
are  going  to  speak,  appeared  in  volume  form 
earlier)  is  peculiarly  rich  in  papers  on  English 
subjects.  Here  is  the  remarkable  paper,  written 
many  years  before,  on  M.  Taine's  "History"; 
here  that  just  discussed  on  '^  Shakespeare  and 
Criticism";  here  the  famous  "Milton,"  famous 
not  merely  by  Mr.  Arnold's  praise  of  it,  but,  with 
the  possible  exception  of  that  on  Wordsworth,  as 
the  chief  example  of  M.  Scherer's  power  in  our 
own  subjects  ;  here  the  less  valuable  but  interest- 
ing paper  on  "  Sterne."  With  the  subject  of  this 
last  it  might  at  first  seem  as  if  M.  Scherer  could 
have  been  in  but  imperfect  sympathy  ;  and  I  am  not 
prepared  to  deny  that  a  desire  to  give  a  helping 
hand  to  a  young  and  very  promising  man  of  letters  — 
a  member  of  the  group  of  Swiss-French  Protestant 
men  of  letters,  of  which  Vinet,  M.  Scherer  himself, 
the  Monods,  and  others  were  pillars  —  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  the  selection  of  it.  But 
Sterne,  who  loved  the  French  nation,  has  always 
had  an  attraction  for  them,  the  causes  of  which  it 
would  not  be  difficult  to  work  out,  and  a  pas- 
sage on  humor  here,  though  oddly  prefaced,  is  one 


INTRODUCTION  XXIX 

of  the  best  tilings  in  this  volume.  The  other 
two  essays  are  of  the  very  first  quality.  It  can 
scarcely  be  said  that  M.  Scherer  has  not  done 
justice  to  M.  Taine;  but  nowhere  have  the  two 
great  faults  of  a  book  which,  brilliant  as  it  is,  is 
almost  more  faulty  than  brilliant  —  its  false  air 
of  method  and  its  tapage  —  been  more  severely 
handled.  Indeed,  M.  Scherer,  who,  whatever  the 
faults  of  his  own  criticism,  rarely  saw  things  quite 
out  of  focus  or  rendered  them  quite  out  of  drawing, 
could  not  but  be  scandalized  at  the  prevalence  of 
these  two  eccentricities  in  M.  Taine's  work.  As 
for  the  "  Milton  "  it  is  difficult  to  admire  it  too 
much.  Inevitably,  M.  Scherer  is  too  severe  on 
Milton's  theological  views  and  assumes  divers 
things  which  he  would  have  been  hard  put  to 
prove  against  an  active  and  well-armed  antagonist. 
Inevitably,  likewise,  he  is  too  lenient  to  Milton's 
character,  which  seems  to  have  had  a  great  many 
points  of  contact  with  his  own.  As  a  criticism  "  of 
art"  on  "Paradise  Lost"  (it  touches  other  matters 
only  incidentally)  it  is  nearly  impeccable.  The 
ineradicable  differences  of  national  taste  may  come 
in  a  little,  and  may  make  us  think  that,  for  in- 
stance, the  poetic  magnificence  of  the  Sin  and 
Death  passage  should  have  saved  it  from  INI. 
Scherer's  condemnation.  But  these  are  details, 
and  of  the  merest.  As  a  whole,  I  should  include 
the  essay  in  any  collection  of  the  best  dozen  or 
sixteen  critical  exercises  of  the  last  half-century 


XXX        ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

ill  Europe.  Enthusiasm,  old  and  new  (for  it  is 
impossible  in  reading  it  to  forget  the  time  when 
]\I.  Scherer  himself  saw,  as  they  say,  eye  to  eye 
w4th  ^Milton  in  religious  matters),  has  aroused  in 
the  critic  a  more  glowing  stjde  than  his  usual 
sober  medium,  and  though  once  or  twice  this  is  a 
little  too  "purple,"  the  best  examples  of  it  are 
admirable. 

The  seventh  volume  also  is  pretty  rich  in  our 
material.  The  appearance  of  Lord  Beaconsfield's 
"Endymion,"  the  death  of  Mr,  Carlyle,  and  the 
publication  of  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  "Selections 
from  Wordsworth  "  gave  M.  Scherer  within  a  very 
few  months  opportunities  of  speaking  on  English 
literature,  and  he  took  them  to  his  and  our  very 
great  advantage.  The  paper  on  "Wordsworth  is  the 
longest  of  his  English,  and  one  of  the  longest  of  all 
his  essays,  and  I  do  not  know  that  he  has  anywhere 
examined  a  subject  more  thoroughly  or  with  greater 
gusto.  Here,  again,  the  attraction  of  personal  sym- 
pathy is  manifest.  Wordsworth,  like  Milton,  was 
both  in  literary  and  in  moral  character  thoroughly 
congenial  to  M.  Scherer.  He  might  from  his  later 
standpoint  smile  at  the  religious  views  of  both  as 
childish,  but  he  had  gone  through  them,  and  in 
AVordsworth's  case  there  was,  with  all  his  orthodoxy, 
also  a  sort  of  vague  undogmatic  theosophy  which 
appealed  directly  to  the  critic.  Wordsworth's  seri- 
ousness, his  austerity,  his  perpetual  regard  to  con- 
duct, were  sure  to  conciliate  M.  Scherer  ;  and  though 


INTRODUCTION"  XXxi 

the  latter  as  a  Frenchman  could  not  but  deplore 
the  poet's  lack  of  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  he  was 
probably  more  than  consoled  by  his  lack  of  frivol- 
ity and  by  his  total  freedom  from  disorderly  pas- 
sion. Indeed,  if  M.  Scherer  had  been  a  poet  (he 
had  in  his  youth,  like  most  critics,  considerable 
poetical  velleities),  and  if  instead  of  a  French 
Protestant  he  had  been  an  Anglican,  I  really  do 
not  know  that  it  would  have  taken  much  more  to 
make  him  a  Wordsworth.  But  as  it  was  there 
could  be  none  of  the  jealousy  which  often  arises 
between  likes,  and  none  of  the  want  of  sympathy 
which  is  commoner  still  between  unlikes.  Every- 
thing made  for  righteousness  and  for  unction  com- 
bined in  the  criticism,  and  the  combination  duly 
appears  in  it.  It  is  interesting  also  for  its  obiter 
dicta  on  Mr.  Arnold,  and  on  the  poetic  succession 
in  England  during  this  century  —  another  of  M. 
Scherer's  admirable  surveys.  This  is,  perhaps,  not 
the  place  to  say  much  on  the  sympathy  between 
Mr.  Arnold  and  M.  Scherer,  and  it  must  be  con- 
fessed that,  as  we  should  expect,  the  French  critic 
is  not  quite  sound  upon  Keats.  It  is,  on  the  whole, 
rather  wonderful  that  he  does  him  as  much  justice 
as  he  actually  does.  Yet  here  also  we  find  more 
than  one  of  those  notes  of  purely  personal  or 
national  dissonance  which  no  transcendence  of 
critical  talent  can  ever  wholly  reconcile,  which  per- 
haps none  can  ever  even  thoroughly  comprehend. 
M.  Scherer  says  that  Lamartine  is  "  plus  tragique. 


XXxii      KSSAYS    ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

plus  sublime,  plus  grand  "  than  Wordsworth,  and 
he  produces  these  two  lines  as  an  example  :  — 

Adore  ici  le  Dieu  qu'adorait  Pythagore, 
Prête  avec  hii  l'oreille  aux  célestes  concerts. 

I  have  myself  been  upbraided  with  setting  French 
poetry  too  high  ;  I  have  thoroughly  subdued  ray 
''  German  paste  "  ;  I  honestly  think  that  the  read- 
ing of  millions  of  lines  of  French  verse  has  attuned 
my  ear  to  any  possible  cadence  of  it  from  the 
Chanson  de  Roland  to  Parallèlemerit.  But  if  there 
is  anything  in  this  distich  comparable  to  such 
Wordsworthian  passages  as  M.  Scherer  quotes,  if 
it  is  not  a  mere  school  exercise  beside  the  great  ode 
or  the  Tintern  Abbey,  I  consent  to  be  written  down 
as  other  than  a  two-legged  creature.  Here,  how- 
ever, we  come  once  more  to  the  mysterium,  the 
"This  is  this  to  me  and  that  to  thee"  beyond 
which  no  criticism  c  vU.  get. 

In  the  next  essay,  the  necrology  on  Carlyle,  we 
find  M.  Scherer  in  part,  though  by  no  means 
wholly,  in  his  worse  vein  as  a  critic,  in  a  vein  not 
otherwise  obvious  to  the  reader  of  this  volume 
merely,  and  less  disastrous  even  here  than  in 
resrard  to  some  French  authors,  but  still  character- 
istic  and  not  favorably  characteristic.  Not  only 
the  date  and  circumstance  of  the  essay,  but  prob- 
ably also  a  real  growth  of  critical  faculty  kept  him 
from  bluntly  dismissing  Carlyle,  as  he  had  done 
twenty  years  before,  with  the  words  "insupport- 


INTRODUCTION  XXxiii 

able  jargon,"  and  there  are  excellent  things  in  the 
paper,  short  as  it  is.  But  we  feel  at  once  that 
there  is  a  thorough  antagonism  between  author  and 
critic,  and  that  the  critic  has  not  taken  too  much 
pains  to  neutralize  it.  If  there  was  one  thing 
which  M.  Scherer  hated  more  than  anything  else  it 
was  the  bizarre.  I  am  afraid  that  I  excited  his  in- 
dignation by  describing  him  in  the  book  which 
he  criticised  so  unfavorably  as  "an  untrustworthy 
judge  of  what  is  not  commonplace,"  and  I  can  see 
now  that  the  words  are  susceptible  of  a  disobliging 
interpretation  which  I  had  not  myself  attached  to 
them.  I  did  not  mean  by  them  that  i\I.  Scherer 
liked  the  commonplace,  much  less  that  he  was 
commonplace  himself;  but  that  anything  distinctly 
out  of  the  commonplace,  anything  bizarre,  outré, 
fantastic,  extravagant,  baroque,  and  so  forth,  ex- 
cited in  him  a  sort  of  prejudice  and  mistrust  which 
deprived  him  for  the  time  of  his  better  critical 
faculty.  He  could  pardon  a  good  deal  of  affecta- 
tion if  it  was  unassuming  and  urbane  ;  he  could 
even  in  this  same  essay  make  that  astonishing 
selection  of  Mr.  Arnold  as  "  not  affected,"  as  "  hav- 
ing the  courage  to  remain  simple  and  sincere." 
But  he  simply  hated  ostentatious  paradox,  neolo- 
gism, oddity  of  style  and  thought  —  in  fact,  almost 
everything  that  was  characteristic  of  the  form,  and 
much  that  was  characteristic  of  the  matter  of  Car- 
lyle.  This  dislike  had  shown  itself  twenty  years 
earlier  in  the  unadvised  speaking  with  the  lips  of 


XXxiv      ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

liis  first  essay  on  George  Eliot;  it  showed  itself 
four  years  later  in  his  last  on  her.  It  gathers 
itself  up  here  a  little  softened,  as  I  have  said,  in 
form  by  tlie  occasion,  but  still  evident  in  fact. 

One  is  surprised,  on  the  contrary,  by  the  toler- 
ance which  M.  Scherer  shows  to  a  very  different 
writer  in  the  article  on  ^'Endymion."  We  might 
have  expected  that  Lord  Beaconsfield's  literature 
and  his  politics  alike  Avould  be  Anathema  Maran- 
atha  to  M.  Scherer,  and  that  Mr.  Gladstone  would 
in  his  political,  if  not  in  his  literary,  capacity  be  a 
man  after  M.  Scherer's  own  heart.  Can  it  be  that 
the  rigid  orthodoxy  of  the  Liberal  and  the  pre- 
sumed freethinking  of  the  Tory  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  critic's  judgment  ?  Perhaps  it  was  the 
spectacle,  always  dear  to  French  eyes,  of  a  mere 
man  of  letters,  a  mere  gentleman  of  the  press,  forc- 
ing himself,  with  a  minimum  of  assistance  from 
birth,  education,  wealth,  or  friendship,  to  the  very 
topmost  height,  which  allured  him.  I  know  not  : 
but  the  fact  remains  that  his  judgment  on  Mr. 
Gladstone  is  anything  but  enthusiastic,  and  on 
Lord  Beaconsfield  is  positively  lenient.  That  he 
does  not  speak  very  highly  of  "  Eudymion  "  itself 
is  not  surprising.  I  know  very  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirers of  Lord  Beaconsfield  who  are  equally  unkind 
to  it. 

And  so  we  come  to  the  last  essay  of  all,  that  on 
Mr.  Cross's  life  of  George  Eliot,  which  has  been 
already  discussed,  and  of   which  we  need  say  no 


IXTRODUCTIOX  XXXV 

more  than  that  it  is  not  merely  an  excellent  appre- 
ciation and  summary  of  the  subject,  but  full  of 
side  lights  on  the  author  himself.  It  exhibits  in 
particular  that  kind  of  Xihilism  —  of  Xihilism  not 
exasperated  or  aggressive,  but  blank,  hopeless^  and 
vv-ith  even  a  point  of  bitterness  piercing  through 
the  even  surface  of  its  would-be  Stoicism  —  which 
distinguished  M.  Scherer's  later  years  and  later 
writings.  Even  George  Eliot  is  a  little  too  posi- 
tive, a  little  too  credulous,  for  him,  and  he  twitches 
that  nymph's  last  garment  of  childish  faith  off 
with  a  rather  icy  gravity  and  apparently  without 
the  slightest  pleasure. 

Here,  however,  Ave  return  to  a  subject  which,  if 
not  exactly  taboo,  and,  indeed,  to  some  extent 
necessary  to  be  touched  upon,  is  not  our  main  con- 
cern. It  will  be  better  to  finish  with  a  general 
summary  of  the  main  characteristics  of  IsZ.  Scherer's 
literary  criticism.  They  are  well  and  favorably, 
though  not  quite  exhaustively,  illustrated  in  these 
essays  on  English  writers,  in  which  his  French 
friends  sometimes  thought  that  he  showed  an  undue 
partiality  —  a  kind  of  xenomania.  In  the  much 
larger  body  of  his  work  on  French  and  other  sub- 
jects, we  shall  find  nothing  to  alter,  though  some- 
thing to  supplement  and  fill  out,  the  estimate 
which  may  be  formed  from  these  only.  In  contra- 
distinction to  those  of  his  friend  and  eulogist,  ^Ir. 
Arnold,  his  estimates  never  neglected  the  historic 
element,  and  I  cannot  but  think  that  this  gave  him 


XXXVl      ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

a  decided  advantage.  We  all  know,  of  course,  what 
Mr.  Arnold  meant  by  his  decryings  of  the  historic 
estimate;  and  we  know  also  that  they  were  com- 
patible in  his  own  case  with  much  fine  criticism  and 
more  delightful  writing.  They  were  also  exceed- 
ingly convenient  as  justifying  the  somewhat  eclec- 
tic character  of  Mr.  Arnold's  critical  philosophy, 
as  enabling  him  to  skip  periods,  authors,  literatures, 
that  he  did  not  care  about,  and  as  fortifying  him  in 
those  secure  and  extremely  one-sided  generaliza- 
tions which  he  executed  with  such  an  incomparable 
mixture  of  audacity  and  grace.  To  put  the  thing 
bluntly  and  briefly,  too  many  parts  of  Mr.  Arnold's 
stately  pleasure  domes  of  aesthetic  elegance  would 
go  down  in  half  an  hour's  battering  from  the  his- 
toric estimate,  and  he  showed  wisdom  in  ruling 
that  estimate  out.  M.  Scherer,  on  the  other  hand, 
did  not  want  to  build  stately  pleasure  domes  ;  he 
never  wanted,  at  least  knowingly,  to  do  anything 
but  comprehend  ;  and  he  saw  the  immense  advan- 
tage in  comprehension  which  the  historical  approach 
gives.  Never  abusing,  never,  indeed,  accepting 
without  grave  modifications  the  product-of-the-cir- 
cumstances  theory,  he  always  attended  to  circum- 
stances, to  origins,  to  the  filiation  of  work  and  of 
talent  in  the  great  literary  pedigree. 

He  had,  on  the  other  hand,  or  fancied  that  he 
had,  a  rather  singular  repugnance  to  another  great 
engine  of  criticism,  the  comparative  method.  I 
say  "fancied  that  he  had,"  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 


INTRODUCTION  XXXVll 

he  sometimes  uses  it  ;  but  he  seems  to  me  to  have 
confused  two  different  kinds  of  comparison  —  the 
one  a  kind  as  bastard  and  as  mischievous  as  possi- 
ble, the  other  the  secret  of  all  really  lasting  and  sat- 
isfactory critical  judgment.  The  comparison  which 
says,  "  What  !  you  like  that?  /like  this,^^  and  justi- 
fies its  dislike  of  That  because  it  does  not  possess 
the  characteristics  of  This,  is  as  idle,  as  uncritical, 
as  mischievous,  as  M.  Scherer  or  anyone  else 
pleases.  But  the  comparison  which  takes  This  and 
That,  puts  them  together,  notes  what  This  has  and 
That  lacks,  observes  how  This  excels  That  in  one 
way,  and  That  excels  This  in  the  other,  appears  to 
me  to  be,  on  the  contrary,  the  one  method  by  which 
you  can  get  at  really  luminous  results.  These 
results  will  be  not,  as  the  private  impressions  even 
of  culture  are  often,  mere  will-o'-the-wisps,  or,  as 
a  priori  and  positive  theories  are,  lights  too  remote 
and  casting  too  long  shadows  to  be  safely  used,  but 
honest  hand-lanterns  which  will  lead  you  about  the 
labyrinth  of  the  world's  literature  with  as  few 
chances  as  possible  of  losing  your  way.  I  think 
that  M.  Scherer  did  use  these  lanterns,  though  he 
affected  to  despise  them  ;  and  I  think  that  the 
careful  reader  of  the  following  pages  will  find 
traces  of  the  use  pretty  frequently. 

For  the  rest,  that  reader  will  certainly  find  here 
many  other  things  which  belong  to  good  —  to  the 
best  —  criticism.  It  was  out  of  M.  Scherer's  way 
in  the  present  essays  to  indulge  in  many  of  those 


XXXVlll      ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

interesting   discussions  on  the  more  abstract   and 
general  points  which  he  has  handled  elsewhere,  as, 
I  ^      I  for  instance,  in  his  capital  discussion  of  the  interest 

VOY^^  .  land  value  of  translations  of  poetry.  Excellent 
English  scholar  as  he  was,  he  had  too  keen  a  sense 
of  the  fitness  of  things  to  descend  into  verbal  criti- 
cism, of  which  he  was  a  great  master,  as  witness 
another  capital  essay  of  his  on  "La  Déformation 
de  la  Langue  Française,"  an  essay  which  has  been 
sometimes  echoed  as  to  English  by  those  who  do 
not  or  will  not  see  that  in  this  respect  the  genius 
of  the  two  tongues  is  diametrically  opposed.  He 
could  not,  of  course,  in  this  bare  dozen  of  essays 
show  anything  like  the  range  of  literary  knowledge 
and  literary  interest  displayed  in  the  entire  collec- 
tion of  probably  a  dozen  dozen,  which  has  still  to 
be  reinforced  with  his  volumes  on  Diderot,  on 
Grimm,  and  others.  But  if  he  misses  some  oppor- 
tunities he  avoids  some  snares.  I  have  spoken  of 
his  greatest  critical  blunder,  the  unsparing  damna- 
tion of  Baudelaire,  not  merely  because  of  his  faults, 
which  are  great,  but  in  spite  of  his  merits,  which 
are  greater.  He  was  not  likely,  on  any  English 
writer,  to  fall  into  the  queer  wrongheadedness  of 
his  attack  on  Molière.  If  his  attitude  towards  Car- 
lyle  shows  something  of  the  same  mistake  as  his 
attitude  towards  Diderot,  the  half-score  pages 
which  he  has  devoted  to  the  one  did  not  admit 
anything  like  the  development  of  the  error  which 
was  possible  in  the  volume  given  to  the  other. 


INTRODUCTION  XXXIX 


And  here,  as  in  ail  his  work,  the  reader  will  find 
certain   qualities  which  are  more  rare  than  they 
ought  to  be,  or  would  seem  at  first  sight  likely  to 
be,  among  critics,  that  is  to  say,  among  persons  who 
deliberately  set  themselves  to  work  to  judge  the 
writings  of  others,  and  who  publish  their  judgments. 
The  first  and  foremost  of  these  qualities  is  an  ample 
preparation  of  study.    The  "  facetious  and  rejoicing 
ignorance,"  as  another  great  critic  has  said,  which 
takes  for  granted,  first,  that  in  this  business  an 
ounce  of  mother-wit  is  worth  more  than  a  pound  of 
clergy,  and,  secondly,  that  so  much  more  than  an 
ounce  of  mother-wit  has  fallen  to  its  own  lot  that 
it  could  dispense  with  clergy  altogether,  was  not  in 
M.  Scherer's  way  ;  indeed,  he  hated  few  things  so 
much.    In  the  second  place,  without  giving  him- 
self any  airs  of  sacerdoce,  he  knew  very  well,  and 
always  acted  on  the   principle,  that   to  make  an 
avowedly  critical  study  a  mere  stalking  horse  for 
shooting  random  shots  of  pleasantry,  a  mere  em- 
broidery  frame    for   elaborating    patches   of    fine 
writing,  is  a  gross  offence  against  art  and  a  gross 
dereliction  of  literary  duty.     If  he  was  less  proof 
against   prejudices  of   various  kinds,  he   at   least 
never  consciously  and  deliberately  indulged  them  ; 
and  if  his  favorite  principle,  that  a  work  of  art 
must  have  a  philosophy,  be  wrong  in  itself,  and? 
goes  perilously  near  to  the  teaching  heresy,  he  at^ 
least  never  admitted  this  latter,  and  did  not  intend) 
that  his  own  maxim  should  involve  it.     He  has' 


Xl  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

been  charged  with  lack  of  charm,  and  you  certainly 
do  not  read  him  merely  for  the  sake  of  his  style  ; 
but  you  have  the  compensatory  advantage  that  he 
himself   never  writes  merely  for   the  sake  of   it. 
"11  avait,"  says  M.   Gréard,   "des  exaltations  de 
satisfaction   intellectuelle   quand   il   arrivait   à  se 
prouver  l'insuffisance  des  explications  communes.'' 
This  is  not  an  exceedingly  cheerful  business,  nor 
do  I  by  any  means  contend  that  it  is  the  whole 
duty  of  critical  man.     But  it  is  an  elementary  part 
of  that  duty,  and  M.  Scherer  himself,  Nihilist  as 
he  sometimes  seems  to  be,  had  in  literature  too 
many  and  too  ardent  likes  and  dislikes  to  make  his 
pursuance  of  it  a  mere  process  of  dull  destruction. 
The  perfect  critic,  if  he  ever  exists,  will  possess  in 
about  equal  parts  the  intimate  grasp,  the  universal 
range,  the  everlasting  tolerance  of   Sainte-Beuve, 
the  literary  grace  and  girlish  charm  of  Mr.  Arnold, 
the  intuition  of  Hazlitt,  the  sympathy  of  Lamb, 
and,  lastly,  a  certain  quality,  or  set  of  qualities, 
which  confer  solid  and  manly  augmentative  power, 
not  hesitating  if  necessary  at  dissolving  analysis. 
But  this  last  quality  will  be  of  as  much  importance 
to  him  as  any  of  the  others,  and  in  surveying  the 
list  of  his  intellectual  ancestors  he  will  see  few 
if  any  better  representatives  of  it  than  Edmond 
Scherer. 


TNIVERSITT 


ESSAYS  ON  ENGLISH  LITEEATUEE 


GEORGE   ELIOT  1 

There  are  perhaps  not  a  few  of  my  readers  who 
have  never  heard  the  name  of  George  Eliot  :  and 
yet  George  Eliot  is  the  first  novelist  of  England. 
Her  works  are  regarded  there  as  so  many  literary 
events,  and  her  talent,  far  from  exhausting  itself, 
seems  to  show  greater  variety  and  greater  vigor  in 
each  new  production. 

There  is  a  curious  contrast  between  the  general 
manliness  of  English  manners  and  the  strain  of 
affectation  which  may  often  be  remarked  in  them. 
We  are  equally  struck,  as  we  survey  our  neighbors,. 
by  the  strong  individuality  of  some  of  them  and  by 
the  pretentious  childishness  of  others.  Every  kind 
of  affectation  is  to  be  found  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Channel  —  the  soldier's  and  the  sportsman's, 
that  of  the  dandy  and   that  of  the  man  who   is 

1  Silas  Marner,  the  Weaver  of  Eaveloe.  [See  introduction  on 
this  essay.  It  is  important,  for  numerous  allusions  in  it,  to 
remember  that  it  was  written  in  1801.  —  Trans.] 

1 


2  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

"used  up,"  the  affectation  of  fashion  and  the  affec- 
tation of  Liberty  Halh  One  man  has  climbed  every 
peak  in  the  Alps,  another  has  hunted  in  the  Sahara. 
Here  you  meet  girls  who  have  travelled  in  India  by 
themselves,  and  they  will  be  the  lionesses  of  the 
season  till  Major  So-and-So  comes  to  exhibit  the 
rifle  with  which  he  "dropped"  so  many  Neapoli- 
tans in  the  Sicilian  campaign.  This  kind  of  thing 
has  slipped  even  into  religion.  Dissent  is  not  be- 
coming; but  Puseyism  is  as  comme-il-faut  as  possi- 
ble. I  know  ladies  who,  having  lived  at  Kome, 
have  embraced  Catholicism,  and  who  make  a  dis- 
play of  their  confessor  and  their  oratory  :  I  know 
others  who  pique  themselves  on  being  freethinkers, 
and  stand  up  for  "  Essays  and  Reviews." 

It  will  easily  be  understood  that  the  region  of 
the  arts  has  not  escaped  this  invasion  of  deliberate 
singularity.  It  was  an  English  sculptor  who  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  tinting  his  statues,  and  it  was 
England  that  saw  the  birth  of  prge-Raphaelitism, 
that  grotesque  compound  of  Byzantine  naïveté  and 
poetry  after  the  fashion  of  M.  Courbet.  As  for 
English  literature,  it  is  with  that  as  with  a  hand- 
some woman  who  tries  to  hide  the  traces  of  age  by 
the  artifices  of  the  toilet.  Writers  set  before  them- 
selves only  one  aim  ;  their  business  is  to  revive 
jaded  senses.  Style,  arrangement,  everything,  tes- 
tifies to  the  desire  of  striking  heavy  blows.  The 
reader's  mind  must  be  kept  in  a  perpetual  state  of 
expectation  and  surprise.     Hence  comes  the  study 


■^ 


GEORGE  ELIOT  6 

of  singularity,  tlie  study  which  engenders  preten- 
tiousness, the  pretentiousness  which  leads  to  char- 
latanism. Eccentricity  has  become  a  means  of 
attracting  customers,  and  even  the  most  eloquent, 
even  the  profoundest,  are  not  free  from  calculation. 
There  is  deliberation,  scheme,  set  purpose,  in  the 
cunningly  balanced  antitheses  of  Macaulay,  in  the 
artistic  paradoxes  of  Ruskin,  in  the  intolerable 
jargon  of  Carlyle  ;  but  there  is  most  of  all  in  the 
English  novel. 

Consequently  English  novelists,  despite  their 
great  talent,  make  me  constantly  think  of  Cali- 
fornian  miners  in  quest  of  some  productive  vein. 
They  are  not  obedient  to  a  vocation.  They  are 
prospecting  for  mannerism  and  for  success.  All 
roads  which  lead  to  that  end  are  good.  We  have 
the  fashionable  novel  and  the  theological  novel,  the 
didactic  novel  and  the  "  fast  "  novel,  the  imitation 
of  Sterne  and  the  imitation  of  Smollett,  Dickens's 
reforming  mania  and  Kingsley's  heroic  clergyman. 
There  is  indeed  no  lack  of  verve  in  this  literature, 
nor  could  we  wish  for  less  fertility  and  variety  of 
resource.  What  we  could  wish  for  is  merely  a  littlev 
less  study  of  effect,  a  little  more  simplicity  and' 
sanity. 

I  suspect  that  the  weariness  produced  by  so 
many  attempts  at  refining  counted  for  much  in  the 
success  of  the  "Scenes  of  Clerical  Life,"  George 
Eliot's  first  work,  and  in  that  of  '•  Adam  Bede," 
which  is   still  her  masterpiece.      Readers   passed 


4  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

from  the  lioatiMl  atmosphere  of  an  opera-house  to 
the  freshness  of  a  country  morning,  and  experi- 
enced in  the  presence  of  this  inspiration,  at  once 
deep  and  simple,  an  unaccustomed  kind  of  pleasure. 
It  was  felt  that  the  author  had  told  her  tale  after 
the  manner  of  the  old  bards,  without  listening  to 
her  own  voice,  without  self-consciousness,  and  as  it 
were  yielding  to  the  Muse  who  presides  over  im- 
mortal creations.  What  a  joy  for  those  who  pos- 
sessed taste  and  soul  to  find,  at  last,  an  artist  who 
was  thoroughly  sincere  !  What  a  beneficent  impres- 
sion was  experienced  at  the  sight  of  this  virgin 
genius,  in  the  presence  of  this  masterly  execution, 
which  knew  nothing  of  the  tricks  of  the  studio, 
nothing  of  the  devices  of  behind  the  scenes  ! 

It  must  be  owned,  too,  that  mere  curiosity  helped 
the  success  of  these  works  ;  for  it  was  soon  seen 
that  the  name  they  bore  was  a  pseudonjnn.  It  was 
asked  what  was  the  writer's  sex.  Not  a  few  of  the 
authors  in  vogue  had  the  honor  of  having  attributed 
to  them  a  book  which  certainly  none  of  them  was 
capable  of  writing.  There  were  guesses  and  coun- 
ter-guesses in  the  columns  of  the  newspapers.  One 
critic  —  a  French  critic,  it  is  true  —  had  just  with 
elaborate  induction  proved  that  the  author  of 
"Adam  Bede  "  must  be  a  man,  and  what  is  more 
an  English  clergyman,  when  the  veil  was  rent. 
The  enchanter  was  an  enchantress  —  Miss  Evans 
by  name.  But  there  was  something  that  doubled 
the  mystery  at  the  very  moment  when  it  seemed 


GEOEGE   ELIOT  5 

to  vanish.  Miss  Evans  was  by  no  means  utterly 
unknown  in  the  literary  workl.  She  had  worked 
on  a  very  serious  periodical,  the  ^'Westminster 
Keview."  She  had  written  theological  articles  in 
it.  A  translation  of  Strauss's  celebrated  work  on 
the  Life  of  Jesus  was-  hers.  What  a  mixture  of 
contradictions  and  surprises  !  It  was  not  enough 
to  have  to  acknowledge  a  woman  as  the  first  novel- 
ist of  England  ;  more  than  that,  this  woman  com- 
bined faculties  which  had  never  been  associated  in 
the  memory  of  man.  She  was  at  once  a  savant  and 
a  poet.  There  was  in  her  the  critic  who  analyzes 
and  the  artist  who  creates.  ISTay,  the  pen  which 
had  interpreted  Strauss  —  the  most  pitiless  adver- 
sary of  Christian  tradition  that  the  world  has  pro- 
duced —  this  very  pen  had  just  drawn  the  charming 
portrait  of  Dinah,  and  had  put  on  the  lips  of  this 
young  Methodist  girl  the  inspired  discourse  at 
Hayslope  and  the  touching  prayer  in  the  prison. 
It  is  impossible  to  read  "  Adam  Bede  "  without 
thinking  of  "Jane  Eyre,"  and  yet  there  are  no 
points  of  likeness  between  these  two  works  save 
the  mystery  in  which  they  were  at  first  wrapped, 
and  the  sex  of  the  authors  to  whom  we  owe  them. 
Miss  Bronte's  novel  has  more  dash,  more  vigor, 
more  eloquence  ;  and  I  am  not  sure  whether  there 
is  anything  to  be  found  in  Miss  Evans's  work  equal 
to  Jane  Eyre's  flight  when,  after  leaving  Roches- 
ter's house,  she  wanders  at  random,  the  victim  of  a 
conflict  of  feelings  dominated   by  the   inexorable 


6  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

autliorit}^  of  duty.  But  here  Miss  Bronte's  superi- 
ority ceases.  She  soon  betrays  her  want  of  experi- 
ence. vSlie  flies  to  melodramatic  devices  ;  her  crea- 
tions have  more  strength  than  truth  ;  and,  in  short, 
"wliat  remains  of  her  book  after  a  second  reading  is 
no  great  thing.  It  is  quite  otherwise  with  Miss 
Evans  ;  in  her  novels  everything  is  simple,  mature, 
finished,  and  it  is  scarcely  possible  to  re-read  them 
without  discovering  fresh  beauties. 

Besides,  after  '^  Jane  Eyre  "  Charlotte  Bronte 
merely  repeated  herself;  while  her  rival  has  as  yet 
given  no  sign  of  exhaustion.  I  have  mentioned 
the  surprises  which  George  Eliot  sprang  on  the 
public,  but  the  public  had  not  yet  come  to  the  end 
of  them.  After  recovering  from  the  excitement 
caused  by  so  great  a  merit  and  so  great  a  success, 
readers  (who  are  sooa,tired  of  admiration)  said  to 
themselves  that  it  was  their  turn.  "  Let  us  wait 
and  see,"  said  they,  "  what  her  next  work  will  be 
like."  The  next  work  was  not  long  delayed. 
"The  Mill  on  the  Floss"  appeared  a  year  after 
"Adam  Bede,"  and  the  most  fastidious  criticism 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that,  if  there  was  a 
little  less  finish  in  the  new-comer,  the  power  and 
talent  which  it  showed  were  not  less.  Yet  another 
year  —  less  than  a  year  —  has  i)assed  away,  and 
"  Silas  Marner  "  comes  to  show  in  its  turn  that  the 
author,  among  the  other  secrets  of  genius,  possesses 
that  of  fecundity. 

"Silas  Marner"  is  a  story  of  village  life.     The 


GEORGE  ELIOT  7 

hero  is  a  poor  weaver,  pious  of  heart  and  ingenious 
of  mind.  But  in  his  inner  being  an  unjust  sen- 
tence has  destroyed  faith  in  the  order  of  Provi- 
dence. He  gives  himself  up  thenceforth  to  the  ma- 
terial cares  of  life,  becomes  a  miser,  heaps  up  his 
gains,  and  sets  his  affections  on  the  contemplation 
of  his  hoard.  The  hoard  is  stolen,  and  Silas  falls 
into  a  kind  of  brute  despair,  from  which  he  is  res- 
cued by  the  interest  with  which  a  little  girl  inspires 
him.  Her  mother  has  died  of  want  at  his  door, 
and  he  has  been  the  first  to  be  called  to  assist  her. 
He  takes  charge  of  the  child,  nurses  her,  brings 
her  up,  and  is  himself  born  again  to  happiness  in 
thus  once  more  finding  some  good  to  do  and  some 
one  to  love.  As  great  as  the  gloom  of  the  solitary 
days,  when  the  weaver  drudged  for  the  sake  of 
hoarding,  is  the  brightness  of  the  old  man's  last 
years  in  the  company  of  his  adopted  daughter.  It 
is  a  second  youth,  a  new  life,  the  solution  of  all 
the  painful  problems  which  had  formerly  weighed 
this  human  soul  down  into  the  dust. 

Every  novel  is  a  mixture  of  three  elements  — 
character,  dialogue,  and  action.  The  action  in  a 
work  of  fiction  is  a  factor  which  is  at  once  capital 
and  subordinate.  On  the  one  hand,  there  is  no  in- 
terest in  a  story  where  the  plot  is  weak  ;  on  the 
other,  we  have  seen  memorable  examples  in  which, 
though  the  action  may  have  been  conducted  with 
consummate  skill,  the  story  has  yet  not  taken  rank 
as  literature.     It  may  amuse,  it  may  be  popular, 


8  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  yet  at  the  end  of  a  year  or  two  it  will  be  noth- 
ing but  a  memory. 

The  real  stuff  of  the  novel  lies  in  the  charac- 
ters ;  but  at  the  same  time  the  character-drawing 
is  effected  by  the  dialogue.  A  great  change  in  this 
respect  has  passed  over  the  literary  kind  of  which 
we  speak.  Formerly  the  novelist  contented  him- 
self with  analysis  ;  he  was  privileged  to  read  the 
souls  of  his  personages,  and  it  was  his  business  to 
tell  us  what  he  found  there.  Nowadays  (Walter 
Scott  was  the  chief  author  of  this  innovation),  it  is 
the  business  of  each  personage  to  express  his  own 
feelings,  and  the  dialogue  by  means  of  which  the 
personages  make  themselves  known  has  become 
the  capital  part,  and  in  some  sort  the  whole,  of  the 
novel.  The  modern  novel  is  a  drama  ;  description 
holds  the  place  of  scenery,  narrative  gives  a  clue  to 
the  mise-en-scène  ;  but  it  is  the  talk  which  consti- 
tutes the  main  substance  and  texture  of  the  work. 

Now  George  Eliot's  talent  excellently  suits  the 
requirements  of  the  style  which  we  have  just  de- 
scribed. In  her  books  the  action  is  always  ingen- 
iously simple,  equidistant  from  the  commonplaces 
of  fiction  and  from  the  affectation  of  romantic 
invention.  Still  it  is  in  character-drawing  that 
our  author's  superiority  is  especially  manifest. 
Here  we  find  the  precision  of  outline,  the  truth 
of  color,  the  infinite  variety,  the  sustained  indi- 
viduality, the  moral  unity  which  mark  alike  the 
works   of    Nature   and   those   of    genius.      What 


GEORGE   ELIOT  9 

wonderful  creations  are  Dinah  and  Hetty,  Maggie 
and  Silas,  old  Lisbeth  and  the  Dodson  family! 
Every  one  of  George  Eliot's  personages,  however  sub- 
ordinate the  part,  however  passing  the  appearance, 
has  a  special  physiognomy  and  characteristic  style  of 
speaking.     But  this  brings  us  back  to  the  dialogue. 

I  have  said  that  in  the  novels  of  our  day  it  is  the^ 
business  of  the  dialogue  to  set  forth  the  characters,  / 
so  that  two  different  gifts  —  the  talent  for  creating  a 
character,  and  that  of  making  it  speak  —  are  now 
indispensable  the  one  to  the  other.  And  yet  these 
two  talents  are  quite  distinct.  It  is  possible  to  out- 
line a  character  which  is  both  original  and  true 
without  succeeding  in  putting  in  its  mouth  interest- 
ing and  natural  language.  On  the  other  hand,  dia- 
logue in  itself  either  pointed  and  ingenious,  or  lofty 
and  profound,  may  lack  that  secret  unity  which,  ^ 

properly  speaking,  constitutes  character.  The  writ- 
ings of  Dickens  exemplify  what  I  mean.  That 
clever  novelist  excels  at  modelling  a  laughable  or  a 
repulsive  physiognomy,  at  fixing  the  mask  on  a  lay 
figure  costumed  with  equal  oddity,  and  then  at 
lending  to  the  hero  who  is  thus  built  up  some  gro- 
tesque catchword,  some  humorous  repartee  which, 
thrown  in  among  scenes  of  great  variety,  produces 
a  sort  of  debased  comedy.  The  beings  thus  created 
are  striking;  you  know  them  when  you  see  them; 
but  they  are  not  alive  ;  they  have  not  the  consist- 
ency of  an  individuality  v/hich  remains  faithful  to 
itself,  while  ceaselessly  revealed  under  new  aspects. 


10  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATUKE 

It  is  quite  otherwise  with  George  Eliot's  books. 
Here  the  personiiges  are  not  only  infinitely  various, 
they  are  not  only  each  provided  with  a  language 
proper  to  itself,  but  this  language  is  always  at  once 
alike  and  different,  suitable  to  the  character  it  ex- 
presses, and  animated  by  the  unexpectedness  which 
springs  from  the  particular  situation.  More  than 
this,  the  writer  has  sown  broadcast  all  over  her 
work  the  salt  of  the  best  kind  of  pleasantry.  Not 
one  of  her  rustics,  of  her  artisans,  of  her  lower 
middle-class  folk  —  not  an  old  maid  or  a  child  in 
her  pages  —  but  has  a  special  naïve  originality,  a 
special  humor,  jovial  or  sly,  and  a  special  and  de- 
lightful cast  of  drollery.  I  do  not  think  that  any 
novelist  has  strewed  over  his  work  wit  so  abundant 
or  so  varied,  so  fruitful  in  surprises,  so  full  of  sallies. 
IMrs.  Poyser  in  "  Adam  Bede,"  is  in  this  respect  one 
of  the  most  extraordinary  creations  of  prose  fiction. 
The  reader  must  imagine  a  good-tempered  farmer's 
wife,  speaking  much  at  every  occasion  and  to  every 
comer,  who  says  nothing  without  seasoning  the 
speech  with  some  piquant  phrase,  who  is  ready 
with  a  repartee  for  every  one,  whose  inexhaustible 
verve  is  independent  of  catchwords,  whose  good 
sayings  have  all  the  raciness  and  the  strongly 
marked  character  of  popular  proverbs.  Mrs.  Poy- 
ser is  of  the  right  lineage  of  Sancho  Panza. 

For  the  rest,  is  it  a  paradox  to  say  that  dialogue 
and  character,  invention  and  description,  the  wit 
that  amuses  and  the  imagination  that  charms,  all 


GEORGE  ELIOT  11 

these  elements  of  the  novel,  all  these  gifts  of 
genius,  are  but  secondary  ?  and  that,  if  work  which 
is  to  last  cannot  do  without  them,  it  is  still  not 
they  that  make  the  work  immortal  ?  I  leave  out 
of  count  the  circulating  library  subscriber,  for  he  is 
incapable  of  tasting  George  Eliot  ;  I  speak  of  the 
reader  who  reads  a  second  time,  who  reflects  upon 
and  who  relishes  what  he  reads.  AYliat  he  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously  seeks  in  a  novel,  what, 
attracts  or  repels  him  in  it,  is,  if  we  follow  it  home,  ; 
the  philosophy  which  is  expressed  there.  It  is 
philosophy  with  which  a  novel  can  least  dispense. 
If  there  is  no  philosophy,  there  is  no  meaning  ; 
and  if  there  is  no  meaning,  what  have  we  to  do 
with  it  ?  Man  is  so  made  that  he  seeks  for  himself 
everywhere.  In  nature  he  hunts  a  mystery  which 
is  merely  his  own,  in  history  he  questions  his  own 
destiny.  Art,  in  order  to  interest  him,  must  talk 
of  himself.  Novels  themselves  are  nothing  to  us 
if  they  are  not  an  interpretation  of  the  world  and 
of  life.  Now  George  Eliot's  work  is  full  of  the  les- 
sons which  the  work  of  the  great  artist  always  con- 
tains. The  author,  it  is  true,  has  drawn  hardly 
anything  but  ordinary  life  ;  her  favorite  heroes 
are  children,  artisans,  laborers  —  her  favorite  sub- 
jects the  absurdities  of  middle-class  life,  the  preju- 
dices of  small  towns,  or  the  superstitions  of  the 
country.  But  underneath  these  externally  pro- 
saic existences  the  writer  makes  us  behold  the 
eternal   tragedy   of   the   human   heart.     We  meet 


12  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

once  more  the  failures  of  will,  the  calculations  of 
egotism,  pride,  coquetry,  hatred,  love  —  all  our  pas- 
sions and  all  our  foibles,  all  our  littlenesses  and  all 
our  errors.  Nor  is  this  all  :  something  rises  from 
these  creations;  there  emanates  from  them,  as  it 
were,  a  perfume  of  wisdom  ;  there  drops  from  them, 
as  it  were,  a  lesson  of  experience.  George  Eliot 
looks  at  men's  faults  with  so  much  sympathy, 
mixed  with  so  much  elevation  ;  the  condemnation 
she  passes  on  evil  is  tempered  with  so  much  tolera- 
tion and  intelligence  ;  the  smile  on  her  face  is  so 
near  tears  ;  she  is  so  clear-eyed  and  so  resigned  ; 
she  has  our  weaknesses  so  well  by  heart  ;  she  has 
suffered  so  much  and  lived  so  much  —  that  it  is  im- 
possible to  read  her  pages  without  feeling  ourselves 
won  by  this  lofty  charity.  We  are  at  once  moved 
and  calmed;  it  seems  that  she  has  enlarged  our 
ideas  of  the  world  and  of  God.  We  feel  as  we  shut 
the  book  that  we  are  more  at  peace  with  ourselves, 
calmer  in  face  of  the  problems  of  destiny. 


Ill 

JOHN  STUART  MILL 

M.  DupOXT  White  is  among  the  small  mimber 
of  writers  who  still  treat  politics  as  a  science,  and 
we  owe  to  him  both  original  and  translated  work 
on  this  science.  He  has  courageously  grappled  in 
his  books  with  the  questions  which  touched  the 
destinies  of  France  nearest  —  that  is  to  say,  the 
relations  between  the  individual  and  the  State, 
between  liberty  and  centralization.  He  has  brought 
to  the  settlement  of  these  questions  views  which 
are  liis  own,  and  which  are  supported  by  the  study 
of  facts  and  by  ingenious  reasoning.  His  whole 
work  is  instructive,  paradoxical,  stimulative  of  con- 
tradiction. Nor  has  M.  Dupont  White  deserved 
less  well  of  the  French  public  in  making  known  to 
it  the  political  writings  of  one  of  the  most  eminent 
thinkers  of  contemporary  England,  Mr.  John  Stuart 
Mill.  Mr.  Mill's  book  on  "Representative  Gov- 
ernment "  is  an  important  work  on  a  great  subject  : 
the  principles,  namely,  and  the  conditions  of  gov- 
ernment in  democratic  States.  It  is  on  this  book 
that  I  wish  to  discourse  to  my  readers  to-day  ;  but 

1  Representative  Government.  By  J.  Stuart  Mill.  Translated 
and  preceded  by  an  introduction  by  Dupont  White.    1862. 

13 


14  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

it  will  not  be  useless  to  begin  by  pointing  out  what 
the  author's  other  works  are,  what  are  their  dis- 
tinguishing tendencies,  and  what  place  they  hold  in 
the  intellectual  movement  of  our  time. 

Mr.  Mill's  mind  and  his  views  have  been  devel- 
oped under  the  action  of  several  successive  influ- 
ences. Our  author  began  with  Bentham  ;  he  passed 
later  under  the  sway  of  Auguste  Comte,  nor  did  he 
finally  escape  the  fascinations  of  the  French  Socialist 
systems.  His  father  (well  known  by  his  '-Plistory 
of  British  India  "  and  by  divers  philosophical  and 
political  works)  was  one  of  Bentham' s  most  de- 
voted disciples.  Our  author  was  brought  up  in  the 
lap  of  the  Utilitarian  school,  and  he  began  his  career 
as  a  publicist  under  the  eyes  of  its  founder.  But 
the  utilitarian  doctrines  have  both  their  sources 
and  their  issues  in  a  definite  group  of  ideas  ;  and 
these  ideas  are  exactly  those  which  found  their  ex- 
pression in  Positive  philosophy.  When  he  passed 
from  the  school  of  Bentham  to  that  of  Comte,  Mr. 
Mill  did  not  change  his  direction.  He  merely  fol- 
lowed the  course  of  utilitarian  ideas  to  the  point 
where  they  debouch  and  lose  themselves  in  a 
vaster  system.  The  Positive  philosophy,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  has  done  little  more  than  mark  the 
tendency  of  all  modern  science  to  become  "  positive  " 
—  that  is  to  say,  to  exclude  everything  which  lies 
outside  of  experience.  Comte  gave  formal  expres- 
sion to  the  eagerness  of  our  time  to  free  itself  from 
metaphysical  ideas.    He  assigned  to  this  movement 


JOHN   STUAPvT   MILL  15 

its  place  in  the  evolution  of  the  human  mind.  This 
is  all  he  did,  but  this  is  itself  a  service  rendered  to 
thought.  To  connect  facts,  to  unite  ideas,  to  lay 
down  a  law  is  to  make  science  advance  ;  and  this 
is  why  the  name  of  Comte  has  henceforward  its 
place  in  the  history  of  philosophy. 

It  is  worth  noticing  that  the  Positive  doctrine 
has  been  more  successful  among  our  neighbors  than 
among  ourselves.     In  Prance  it   hardly  numbers, 
among  strictly  orthodox  disciples,  more  than  one 
name^  which  has   other  titles   to   distinction.     It 
is  not  so  in  England.    Comte's  formless  volumes 
have  been  there  abridged  by  the  elegant  pen  of 
Miss  Martineau.    More  than  one  periodical  —  the 
'•Leader,''  the  "Westminster  Keview  "—has  served 
as  an  organ  of  the  party  ideas.     Several  men  of 
ability  or  of  learning  have  constituted  themselves 
its  interpreters.     Mr.  Mill  has  written  the  Positiv- 
ist  "  Logic."     The  work  of  Mr.  Lewes  on  the  His- 
tory of  Philosophy,  that  of  Mr.  Buckle  on  the  Phil- 
osophy of  History,  are  connected  with  the  same 
school.    Even  political  Positivism  has  found  in  Mr. 
Congreve  a  disciple  enthusiastic  enough  and  naïf 
enough  to  request  his  countrymen  to  give  up  India 
and  Gibraltar.    The  teachings  of  Comte  have  every- 
where taken  root  in  the  country  of  Locke,  as  though 
in  their  native  soil  :  and  if  the  English  have  some- 
times done  us  the  honor  of  regarding  Mr.  !Mill  as 
possessed  of  specially  Erench  qualities,  we  might 
1  [That  of  M.  Littré,  no  doubt.—  Trans.] 


16  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

almost  make  them  a  present  of  the  founder  of  the 
school  as  one  of  themselves.^  It  is  customary  to 
set  the  two  nations  against  each  other  as  totally- 
opposite  :  ought  we  not  to  modify  such  a  judgment 
when  we  see  France  adopting  Locke  and  Keid,  and 
England  returning  the  compliment  by  borrowing 
the  books  of  M.  Cousin^  and  the  ideas  of  M.  Comte  ? 
Mr.  Mill's  first  great  work  was  his  "Logic/'  which 
appeared  in  1843.  This  is  an  exposition  of  the 
essential  x)rinciples  of  the  Positive  philosophy,  and 
it  is  easily  to  be  understood  how  this  philosophy 
reduces  itself  to  logic.  Positivism  is  philosophy 
minus  metaphysics  —  that  is  to  say,  philosophy 
minus  philosophy,  purely  formal,  wholly  method- 
ical. Nor  do  I  know  in  the  history  of  ideas  a 
closer  connection  than  that  which  binds  Mill's 
teaching  to  the  teaching  of  his  predecessors  of  the 
English  school.  From  the  moment  when  sensation 
becomes  the  sole  source  of  our  knowledge,  it  is 
clear  that  phenomena  are  the  only  objects  of  it, 
and  that  the  phenomenon  itself  is  only  an  indi- 
vidual or,  as  they  say,  subjective  impression. 
From  this  to  Hume  and  to  Berkeley  there  is  but 
a  step.  If  we  know  nothing  of  things  but  the 
impression  produced  on  us,  we  can  neither  know 
nor  affirm  anything  of  things  considered  in  them- 

1  [For  this  kind  present  I  fear  Englishmen  will  not  be  duly- 
thankful;  at  least  I  am  not.  —  Trans.] 

2  [If  this  is  an  innuendo  against  Sir  W.  Hamilton  and  his 
school,  it  is  not  quite  worthy  of  M.  Scherer.  But  he  was  at  this 
time  in  the  ardor  of  Hegelian  "  conversion." —  Trans.} 


JOHN   STUART   MILL  17 

selves  — not  even  their  real  existence.  Such,  is  the 
ground  on  which  our  author  takes  his  stand.  The 
aim  of  his  book  is  to  eliminate  from  science  the 
transcendent  element  —  that  is  to  say,  everything 
which  lies  beyond  experience.  If  we  take  his 
word,  a  thing  is  but  a  bundle  of  attributes,  and 
essence  is  but  a  word.  "  Cause  "  in  the  same  way 
is  but  the  constant  succession  of  two  phenomena  : 
"  law  "  itself  has  no  necessity,  and  is  only  a  prob- 
ability founded  on  the  frequent  repetition  of  facts. 
Thus  the  Infinite,  the  Absolute,  everything  that  is 
universal  and  necessary,  vanishes  from  nature  and 
from  science.  There  remains  nothing  but  man  and 
his  perceptions,  but  facts  and  their  relations.  I 
make  not  the  least  pretence  of  refuting  Mr.  Mill's 
system  :  I  prefer  simply  to  seek  in  it  for  indica- 
tions of  the  tendency  of  his  mind.  Besides,  to 
tell  the  truth,  I  do  not  think  it  possible  to  refute 
phenomenalism  :  the  task  would  be  self-contradic-  j 
tory.  If  aman  confines  himself  to  the  regions  of 
personal  impression,  you  never  can  persuade  him 
that  there  is  anything  further,  for  the  very  condi- 
tions of  his  knowledge  oppose  themselves  thereto, 
and  the  man  cannot  go  out  of  himself  to  penetrate 
the  nature  of  things.  It  is  impossible  for  him  to  see 
them  otherwise  than  as  they  appear,  or  to  assure 
himself  that  this  appearance  is  not  their  whole  con- 
tents. At  the  most  one  can  but  remind  him  that 
the  partisans  of  Positivism  do  not  take  into  ac- 
count all  the  elements  of  the  problem  as  it  states 


18  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

itself  in  human  consciousness.  It  is  true  that  our 
senses  do  not  attain  to  anything  in  the  object  save 
attributes  :  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  we  have  a 
notion  of  some  substance  distinct  from  these  attri- 
butes —  that  we  cannot  get  rid  of  this  notion,  and 
that  the  very  word  "  attribute  "  implies  it.  So  is 
it,  too,  with  Cause.  We  cannot  actually  take  hold 
of  anything  but  the  sequence  of  two  phenomena. 
Yet  in  using  the  word  "cause"  we  mean  some- 
thing much  more  than  that  — we  mean  that  one  of 
the  facts  is  contained  in  the  other,  and  that  they 
are  inseparable  by  thought.  And,  lastly,  it  is  true 
that  when  we  see  phenomena  accomplishing  them- 
selves in  a  constantly  uniform  manner,  we  know 
really  but  one  thing  —  that  the  sequence  has  not 
as  yet  failed.  But  it  is  equally  true  that  we  have 
an  invincible  belief  in  the  eternal  constancy,  the 
absolute  validity  of  the  rule.  Thus  our  judgments 
carry  into  things  a  datum  which  is  not  furnished 
by  experience  —  one  of  which  we  cannot  conse- 
quently say  that  it  is  supplied  by  reality,  but 
which  is  none  the  less  inherent  in  our  minds,  and 
of  which  we  are  absolutely  unable  to  get  rid.  This 
is  what  Kant  comprehended  so  admirably  and  what 
he  tried  to  explain:  and  this  is  why  Positivism, 
which  does  not  see  it  or  does  not  take  account  of  it, 
falls  short  of  philosophy  proper. 

Five  years  after  his  "  Logic,"  Mr.  Mill  published 
a  not  less  monumental  work  on  Political  Economy, 
in  which  he  attacked  every  question,  and  showed 


JOHN  STUART  MILL  19 

on  all  points  at  once  a  profound  knowledge  of  all 
theories,  and  that  independence  of  mind  which 
enslaves  itself  to  none.  Yet  this  work,  which  in 
England  has  ranked  the  author  by  the  side  of  Adam 
Smith  and  of  Eicardo,  had  less  originality  than 
thoroughness.  The  author  showed  more  sense  and 
information  than  freshness  :  and  gave  us  an  ency- 
clopaedia of  the  science  rather  than  a  system  of  his 
own.  It  differed  in  this  respect  from  the  "  Logic  "  : 
and  if  it  could  not  but  increase  the  repute  of  the 
author  by  showing  all  the  extent  of  his  study  and 
his  qualifications,  it  was  certain  also  to  arouse  less 
surprise  and  start  fewer  discussions. 

The  newest  part  of  the  book  was  that  in  which 
Mr.  Mill  enlarged  his  subject  by  including  in  it 
some  political  problems.  After  treating  matters 
purely  economical  under  the  three  heads  of  Produc- 
tion, Distribution,  and  Exchange,  the  author  sets 
forth  certain  considerations  on  the  progress  of 
society  and  the  influence  of  government.  In  this 
last  part  he  examines  the  possible  and  desirable 
limits  of  the  action  of  the  State.  And  it  is  here 
that  we  find,  amid  the  most  jealous  fears  on  the 
subject  of  centralization  and  the  encroachments  of 
power,  and  in  company  with  the  expression  of  the 
most  enlightened  love  for  liberty,  certain  assertions 
which  seem  contrary  to  these  principles,  and  which 
have  not  failed  to  cause  some  astonishment.  Our 
author,  while  handling  State  intervention,  comes 
across   the   various    systems   of   Socialism,    or,    to 


20  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

speak  more  exactly,  Cominiinisin,  since  the  question 
is  of  a  state  of  things  in  which  collective  is  to  take 
the  place  of  individual  property.  Mr.  Mill  calls  a 
halt  at  this  subject  and  discusses  it.  Nay,  he  does 
more,  he  declares  that,  if  the  choice  between  Com- 
munism and  the  suffering  and  injustice  which 
private  property  involves  at  the  present  time  were 
necessary,  it  could  not  be  doubtful.  Indeed  he  is 
not  quite  sure  that  Communism  is  not  the  best 
form,  and  the  final  form,  of  society.  And  so,  as  I 
have  said,  the  influence  of  yet  another  French 
school  has  added  itself  in  Mr.  Mill's  case  to  the 
influence  which  Auguste  Comte  had  already  exer- 
cised over  him. 

There  is  a  real  analogy  between  these  two  doc- 
trines as  well  as  between  both  and  our  author's  cast 
of  mind.  He  is  as  a  thinker  bold  rather  than  pro- 
found :  he  possesses  ingenuity,  sagacity,  precision, 
but  no  great  suppleness.  With  all  his  cleverness 
in  analyzing  and  expounding,  discussing  and  sur- 
veying a  subject  at  its  origins,  and  in  pursuing  its 
applications  with  all  his  logical  and  investigating 
strength,  he  is  lacking  in  the  gift  of  original  crea- 
tion, and  even  in  that  of  intuitive  perception.  He 
fails  in  finesse.  He  does  not  entirely  understand 
anything  but  w^hat  is  measured  and  numbered. 
Imponderable  elements,  spiritual  influences,  escape 
him.  He  ignores  the  play  of  passion,  the  part 
borne  by  moral  forces.  In  short,  look  at  Mr.  Mill 
from  what  side  you  like,  and  you  will  always  recog- 
nize the  Positive  philosopher. 


JOHN   STUAET   MILL  21 

This  should  make  it  clear  how  he  was  of  neces- 
sity exposed  to  the  blandishments  of  which  I  have 
spoken,  for  Socialist  theories  naturally  serve  as 
the  politics  of  Positivism  ;  and  there  is  a  kinship 
between  the  two  systems.  We  must  take  good  care, 
moreover,  to  recognize  that  in  itself,  and  as  a  mere 
theor}'-,  Communism  is  invulnerable.  The  society 
which  it  offers  us  is  perfectly  organized,  regular, 
losfical,  svmmetrical.  It  has  but  one  fault,  and  that 
is  that  it  is  ideal,  or,  in  other  words,  impossible. 
It  does  not  take  man  as  he  is,  with  his  foibles,  his 
tendencies,  his  caprices.  It  sees  in  him  only  a  fixed 
quantity,  a  product,  a  machine.  And  for  this  same 
reason  it  takes  no  account  of  his  needs  of  develop- 
ment and  of  liberty.  I  know,  of  course,  that  there 
are  very  liberal  Communists  ;  but  I  cannot  help 
thinking  that  they  are  so  only  by  virtue  of  a  con- 
tradiction. Laissez-faire  has  no  real  place  in  their 
conception  of  society. 

Now  Mr.  Mill  must  needs  have  fallen  more  easily 
than  another  into  this  contradiction.  There  are 
indeed  two  men  in  him.  There  is  the  systematic 
thinker,  and  the  Englishman  accustomed  to  the 
exercise  of  liberty  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  advan- 
tasres  resulting:  from  it.  There  is  the  savant  for 
whom  individual  and  society  both  are  the  results  of 
certain  forces,  the  action  of  certain  machinery  ;  and 
there  is  the  manly  spirit  which  cannot  endure  the 
placing  of  fetters  on  independence  of  opinion. 
There  is  the  Benthamite  who  looks  at  institutions 


22  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

from  the  point  of  view  of  utility  (that  is  to  say,  as 
a  result  or  quotieut),  the  "scientist"  who  con- 
templates the  fated  laws  followed  by  humanity; 
and  there  is  the  citizen  who  has  learnt  to  esteem 
these  same  institutions  in  accordance  with  their 
influence  on  the  development  of  man  and  the  for- 
mation of  character. 

This  last  aim  is  that  which  dominates  in  the  lit- 
tle book  "  On  Liberty,"  while  both  are  found  in  the 
volume  on  "Representative  Government."  I  can- 
not here  dwell  on  the  elder  of  these  two  works,  but 
I  must  express  my  admiration  of  the  inspiration 
under  which  it  was  written.  Nowhere  is  there  to 
be  read  a  more  eloquent  defence  of  the  rights  of 
individualism,  a  more  generous  protest  against  the 
tyranny  of  governments,  and  still  more  against  that 
of  custom  and  opinion.  It  is  in  this  religious  re- 
spect for  the  liberty  of  all,  this  tolerance  for  every 
idea,  this  confidence  in  the  final  results  of  the 
struggle,  that  we  recognize  true  Liberalism.  The 
author's  notions  have  not  always  equal  solidity,  but 
his  instincts  are  always  lofty.  We  see  on  every 
page  the  man  whose  own  independence  has  set  him 
at  odds  with  prejudice.  "Despotism  itself  does  not 
produce  its  worst  effects  so  long  as  individuality 
subsists  by  its  side  ;  and  everything  that  crushes 
individuality  is  despotism  by  whatever  name  it  is 
called,  and  with  whatever  disguise  it  adorns  itself." 
These  words  of  the  author  might  serve  as  a  motto 
for  the  volume. 


JOHN   STUART  ISULL  23 

In  his  work  on  "  Eepresentative  Government," 
Mr.  Mill  begins  by  determining  what  the  end  of 
all  government  is.  It  is  a  double  end.  A  govern- 
ment has  functions,  it  exists  for  the  management  of 
interests,  and  it  ought  to  manage  them  as  well  as 
possible  ;  but  it  must  at  the  same  time  contribute 
to  the  people's  moral  progress,  and  help  to  raise 
the  national  character.  This  last  task  is,  indeed, 
the  more  important  of  the  two  ;  and  if  it  could  be 
separated  from  the  other,  it  would  have  to  be  at- 
tended to  first.  Who  has  not  heard  the  benefits  of  a 
wise  despotism  extolled  among  ourselves  ?  Who 
has  not  heard  set  against  the  inconveniences  of  free 
governments  the  superior  manner  in  which  absolute 
governments  accomplish  the  material  part  of  their 
task,  the  success  with  which  they  make  war,  the 
secrecy  with  which  they  negotiate,  the  swiftness 
with  which  they  hurry  on  public  works  ?  This  is 
the  talk  that  we  are  condemned  to  listen  to  every 
day;  and  the  answer,  alas!  is  but  too  easy.  The 
machine  works  admirably,  but  it  is  only  a  machine. 
And  what  good  is  the  greatness  of  a  State  if  society 
goes  from  bad  to  worse  ?  What  good  is  adminis- 
trative perfection  if  this  perfection  is  compatible 
with  the  moral  degradation  of  the  people  ? 

Moreover,  Mr.  Mill  is  by  no  means  disposed  to 
allow  to  absolute  power  the  privilege  of  discharg- 
ing the  special  functions  of  government.  Self- 
government  has  in  his  eyes  two  advantages,  not 
merely  that  of  accustoming  citizens  to  the  exercise 


24  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

of  civic  virtues,  but  also  that  of  assuring  the  well- 
being  of  the  people  by  a  thorough  control.  For  no 
one  is  ignorant  that  rights  and  interests  are  never 
better  secured  than  when  those  interested  in  them 
are  responsible  for  their  defence. 

So,  then,  popular  government  is  that  which  best 
attains  the  divers  ends  of  governing.  Yet  it  can 
only  be  directly  exercised  in  very  small  States, 
such  as  the  Greek  republics,  or  certain  Swiss 
cantons,  where  the  whole  assembly  of  the  people 
can  find  room  in  the  market-place.  In  our  great 
modern  States  it  is  unworkable.  Hence  came  a 
device,  familiar  to  us,  but  unknown  to  antiquity  — 
the  device  by  which  the  people  delegates  its  powers 
to  deputies,  by  which  the  nation  governs  itself 
through  representatives  elected  for  that  purpose. 

Yet  we  must  not  deceive  ourselves  as  to  the  apti- 
tudes of  representative  government.  Bring  the 
numbers  of  a  chamber  of  deputies  as  low  as  you 
will,  it  will  always  be  unfit  for  the  direct  manage- 
ment of  public  affairs.  It  cannot  administer,  it 
cannot  even,  in  Mr.  Mill's  judgment,  draft  the  laws 
which  it  discusses.  Its  business  is  to  be  not  so 
much  a  government  as  the  check  and  overseer  of  a 
government.  Its  principal  function,  in  our  author's 
phrase,  is  to  be  a  committee  of  grievances  and  a 
congress  of  opinion. 

Nor  does  Mr.  Mill  deceive  himself  any  the  more 
as  to  the  conditions  which  are  indispensable  to  the 
establishment  and  the  prosperity  of  the  government 


JOHN   STUART  IVnLL  25 

of  whicli  "we  speak.  That  it  may  work,  the  people 
must  have  at  once  an  independence  which  cannot 
endure  tyranny,  and  a  respect  for  law  without 
which  all  free  governments  end  by  succumbing  to 
disorder.  There  must  be  in  the  nation  neither  the 
ambition  of  command,  which  urges  the  individual 
to  enterprises  against  the  liberty  of  his  fellow-citi- 
zens, nor  the  reluctance  to  obey  which  cannot  bring 
itself  to  yield  to  the  yoke  of  law.  I  hasten  to  add 
that  in  my  opinion  the  benefits  of  representative 
government  are  so  great  that  it  remains  the  best  — 
I  will  go  further,  the  only  one  desirable  —  even 
when  the  national  character  seems  least  to  endure 
it.     The  school  of  liberty  is  liberty  itself. 

If  we  pass  from  general  considerations  on  repre- 
sentative government  to  the  application  of  them, 
we  shall  meet,  first  of  all,  two  capital  questions  to 
which  Mr.  Mill  has  the  merit  of  having  invited  our 
utmost  attention.  I  refer  to  the  distribution  of 
the  suffrage  among  the  electors,  and  the  distribu- 
tion of  votes  among  the  deputies  to  be  elected. 

Mr.  Mill  is  a  partisan  of  universal  suffrage. 
Without  exactly  relying  on  the  abstract  rights  of 
man,  he  regards  as  false  and  dangerous  all  arbitrary 
limitation  applied  to  the  exercise  of  civic  functions. 
In  a  full-grown  and  civilized  nation  there  should  be 
no  pariahs.  The  only  exclusions  which  he  proposes 
are  drawn  from  the  nature  of  the  duty  to  be  ful- 
filled. Thus  he  would  have  the  electors  possess 
elementary  instruction  ;  and  universal  education  in 


26  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

liis  view  ought  to  precede  universal  suffrage.  He 
is  also  of  opinion  that  only  the  man  who  pays  a 
certain  proportion  of  taxes  can  be  admitted  to  the 
nomination  of  an  assembly  by  which  taxes  will  be 
voted.  On  the  other  hand,  our  author  demands 
the  extension  of  electoral  rights  to  women  —  the 
difference  of  sex  in  such  a  matter  seems  to  him  to 
weigh  no  more  than  difference  in  height  or  differ- 
ent-colored hair.  Mr.  Mill  does  not  seem  to  have 
reflected  that  from  the  woman-voter  to  the  woman- 
candidate  there  is  but  a  step,  or  rather  that  there 
is  not  even  that.  However,  these  are  things  not  to 
be  argued  about  ;  for  the  question  becomes  too  deli- 
cate. But  was  I  not  thoroughly  right  in  saying- 
above  that  Mr.  Mill  is  lacking  in  finesse  ? 

I  prefer,  I  must  say,  another  notion  of  our 
author's  on  the  suffrage  —  a  notion  which  he  has 
worked  out  under  the  title  of  the  "plural  vote." 
When  the  institution  of  universal  suffrage  is  sub- 
jected to  unprejudiced  examination,  objections  of 
incontestable  gravity  present  themselves  ;  for  uni- 
versal suffrage  reposes  first  of  all  on  a  right,  and 
if  France  has  adopted  it,  it  is,  no  doubt,  a  result 
of  that  care  for  natural  right  which  forms  one  of 
the  features  of  our  national  spirit.  Enamoured  of 
simple  ideas,  and  especially  of  the  ideas  of  equality 
and  of  justice,  we  thought  that  the  generic  charac- 
ter of  mankind  is  its  predominating  feature,  that 
one  man  is  literally  as  good  as  another  :  that  the 
fundamental  likeness  outweighs  all  differences  in 


JOHN   STUART  INHLL  27 

talent,  in  culture,  and  in  social  position.  We 
thought  so  ;  and  this  led  us  to  equal  and  universal 
suffrage. 

The  argument  Avould  be  as  invulnerable  as  it  is 
simple  if  the  suffrage  were  merely  a  right.  Xow 
it  certainly  is  this  ;  but  it  is  also  a  trust.  When 
he  gives  his  vote  to  a  representative  the  elector 
takes  an  influential  part  in  public  affairs.  Now 
from  this  point  of  view,  which  is  that  of  personal 
qualification,  it  is  clear  that  equality  no  longer 
exists.  One  human  being,  as  a  general  thesis,  may 
be  the  equal  of  another  man  ;  the  ignorant  of  the 
learned,  the  vicious  of  the  virtuous,  the  negro  of 
the  white,  the  woman  of  her  husband.  We  may, 
on  the  strength  of  an  ideal  principle,  abstract  all 
differences  so  as  to  leave  nothing  but  the  identity 
of  species  remaining.  But  so  soon  as  there  is  any 
function  to  discharge,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  put 
these  abstractions  on  one  side  and  inquire  into 
capacity;  and  as  soon  as  capacity  comes  to  the 
fore,  all  the  natural  inequalities  which  had  been 
held  so  cheap  will  reappear. 

How  are  we  to  get  out  of  this  difficulty  ?  How 
reconcile  the  rights  which  are  equal  and  the  capac- 
ities which  are  not  ?  This  is  the  true  statement  of 
the  problem,  and  I  do  not  think  anyone  can  deny 
that  it  is  a  pressing  one,  or  that  the  future  of 
democracy  is  directly  concerned  in  it. 

The  solution  which  Mr.  Mill  proposes  has  the 
advantage  of  simplicity.     Starting  from  the  distinc- 


28  ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

tion  we  have  just  drawn,  we  may  thus  express  it. 
Rights  being  equal,  each  citizen  shall  have  a  vote  ; 
but  capacities  being  at  the  same  time  unequal,  one 
elector  may  have  more  votes  than  another.  As  to 
the  way  of  settling  the  number  to  which  each  is 
entitled,  we  must  lay  stress  on  the  nature  of  their 
occupations,  and  on  the  social  distinctions  which 
carry  with  them,  or  suppose,  superior  intelligence 
and  information.  Thus,  if  a  workman  has  one 
vote,  his  master  will  have  two,  and  the  practitioner 
of  a  liberal  profession  three.  The  important  thing 
is  that  the  proportion  shall  be  clearly  enough 
founded  on  facts  to  be  accepted  by  the  public  con- 
science. Such  is  the  system  which  Mr.  Mill  calls 
the  plural  vote.  He  is  not  afraid  to  add  that,  with 
this  organization  of  voting  excluded,  universal  suf- 
frage may  perhaps  be  preferable  to  other  forms  of 
government  ;  but  that  it  remains  false  in  principle, 
and  that  the  evils  by  which  it  is  accompanied  will 
always  get  the  better  of  its  advantages. 

The  criticism  is  just,  and  the  remedy  is  ingeni- 
ous. We  have  still  to  discover  whether  it  is  prac- 
ticable. Universal  suffrage  is  not  only,  as  I  have 
said,  a  right  and  a  trust  :  it  is  something  more,  or 
(if  anyone  likes)  something  less  ;  in  plain  words,  it 
is  a,  pis-aUe7\  It  has  its  roots  in  the  principle  of 
equality  ;  but  the  force  with  which  it  thrusts  itself 
on  modern  societies  comes  still  more  perhaps  from 
the  difficulty  experienced  by  the  mind  in  finding  a 
middle  term  between  the  narrowest  oligarchy  and 


JOHN  STUART  :mill  29 

the  most  unbridled  democracy.  Electoral  qualifi- 
cations, wherever  they  exist,  have  a  tendency  to  be 
lowered;  and  they  seem  likely  to  be  abolished 
everywhere  for  want  of  a  sufficient  raison  d'être. 
Xobody  can  deny  that  the  Haves  have  more  at 
stake  in  the  commonweal  than  the  Have-nots  ;  nor 
can  anyone  deny  that  distinctions  of  fortune  do,  in 
a  general  way,  correspond  to  differences  of  educa- 
tion and  intelligence.  But  at  the  same  time  it  is 
impossible  to  settle  exactly  the  relations  between 
these  differences  and  political  capacity.  This  is 
what  helps  to  make  classification  odious  by  mak- 
ing it  arbitrary.  Xow  I  ask  myself  whether  it 
would  not  be  the  same  with  Mr.  Mill's  plan.  Theo- 
retically irreproachable,  specious  in  general  appear- 
ance, it  could  hardly  fail  to  meet  with  difficulties 
in  execution.  Public  opinion  might  no  doubt  acqui- 
esce in  giving  more  votes  to  a  Marshal  of  France,  a 
judge  of  the  Court  of  Appeal,  or  a  member  of  the 
Institute,  than  to  an  ordinary  person  —  even  in 
givino:  more  to  a  master  than  to  a  man.  But  the 
system  could  not  be  applied  as  a  whole.  The  dif- 
ferent categories  could  not  be  drawn  up  without 
the  reappearance  of  the  struggles  of  the  principle 
of  equality  against  distinctions  which  do  not  rest 
with  sufficient  evidence  on  the  nature  of  things. 

The  system  set  forth  by  Mr.  :Mill  is,  however, 
none  the  less  worthy  of  attention.  If  the  need  of 
organizing  universal  suffrage  is  ever  felt,  it  is  as- 
suredly in   this  direction   that   the   solution  of  a 


30  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

singularly  thorny  problem  must  be  sought.  The 
plural  vote  seems  at  all  events  preferable  to  the 
expedient  of  indirect  election,  and  the  reader  will 
find  in  the  work  under  notice  some  very  just  re- 
marks on  the  faults  of  this  latter  kind  of  suffrage. 

The  second  question  raised  by  representative 
government  and  suffrage-organization  is  that  of  the 
manner  of  electing.  Nor  let  anyone  think  that 
nothing  but  a  mere  working  detail  is  here  at  stake. 
Now  or  never  we  may  say  that  the  way  of  doing 
the  thing  is  more  important  than  the  doing  of  it. 
"  Two  very  different  ideas/'  says  Mr.  Mill  excel- 
lently, "are  usually  confounded  under  the  name 
democracy.  The  pure  idea  of  democracy,  accord- 
ing to  its  definition,  is  the  government  of  the  whole 
people  by  the  whole  people  equally  represented. 
Democracy  as  commonly  conceived  and  hitherto 
practised  is  the  government  of  the  whole  people  by 
a  mere  majority  of  the  people  exclusively  repre- 
sented. The  former  is  synonymous  with  the 
equality  of  all  citizens  ;  in  the  second  (strangely 
confounded  with  it)  is  a  government  of  privilege 
in  favor  of  the  numerical  majority,  who  alone 
possess  practically  any  voice  in  the  State.  This  is 
the  inevitable  consequence  of  the  manner  in  which 
votes  are  now  taken,  to  the  complete  disfranchise- 
ment of  minorities." 

And  further  :  —  "  In  a  representative  body  the 
minority  must  of  course  be  overruled  :  and  in  an 
equal  democracy  the  majority  of  the  people,  through 


JOHN   STUAET   MILL  31 

their  représentatives,  will  out-vote  and  prevail  over 
the  minority  and  their  representatives.  But  does  it 
follow  that  the  minority  should  have  no  represen- 
tatives at  all  ?  Because  the  majority  ought  to  pre- 
vail, must  the  majority  have  all  the  votes,  the 
minority  none  ?  The  injustice  and  the  violation 
of  principle/'  adds  our  author,  '-are  not  less  fla- 
grant because  it  is  a  minority  which  suffers  from 
them.  For  there  is  not  equal  suffrage  where  each 
individual  does  not  count  for  as  much  as  any  other 
single  individual  in  the  community." 

I  shall  also  quote  the  following  reflection,  which 
adds  the  last  touch  to  the  full  picture  of  the 
danger  which  democracy  should  try  to  avert  :  — 
"  The  great  difficulty  of  democratic  government  has 
hitherto  seemed  to  be  how  to  provide  in  a  demo- 
cratic society  what  circumstances  have  hitherto 
provided  in  all  societies  which  have  maintained 
themselves  ahead  of  others  —  a  social  support  —  a 
point  d'appui  for  individual  resistance  to  the  ten- 
dencies of  the  ruling  power,  a  protection  and  a 
rallying  point  for  the  opinions  and  the  interests 
which  the  ascendent  public  opinion  views  with  dis- 
favor. For  want  of  such  a  2-)oint  (V appui,  ancient 
societies,  and  all  but  a  few  modern  ones,  either  fell 
into  dissolution  or  became  stationary  (which  means 
slow  deterioration)  because  of  the  exclusive  pre- 
dominance of  a  part  only  of  the  conditions  of  social 
and  mental  well-being." 

There  is  but  one  means  of  curing  these  vices  of 


32  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

democracy,  wliicli  is  to  organize  minorities.  But 
how  are  we  to  set  about  doing  this  ?  Here  our 
author  adopts  and  warmly  defends  a  plan  proposed 
in  1829  by  Mv.  Hare/  the  chief  features  of  which  I 
may  sum  up  as  follows  :  — 

(1)  Representation  is  no  longer  linked  to  a  town, 
an  arrondissement,  or  any  territorial  circumscrip- 
tion. It  ceases  to  be  local.  All  the  deputies  are 
elected  by  votes  collected  throughout  the  country. 
Every  representative  represents  all  the  citizens 
who  at  any  place  have  voted  for  him  ;  in  other 
words,  the  people  votes  by  scrutin  de  liste  and  for 
candidates  who  stand  for  the  whole  nation. 

(2)  Each  elector's  voting-ticket  is  a  graduated 
list,  on  which  the  candidates  he  chooses  figure  in 
the  order  of  his  preference  for  them. 

(3)  Each  elector  shares  in  the  nomination  of 
one  candidate  only  ;  but  if  the  candidate  he  has  put 
first  fails,  his  second  vote,  his  third,  and  so  on  may 
rank  for  another. 

(4)  The  number  of  votes  necessary  to  seat   a 


1  [It  was  not  quite  so  early,  I  think  (1829  is  either  a  slip  of 
memory  or  a  misprint  for  1850).  M.  Scherer  is  not  entirely  just 
to  the  plan  of  I\Ir,  Hare,  who  died  recently,  with  less  public 
notice  than  might  have  been  expected.  His  scheme,  which  was 
favored  by  many  able  men  of  all  political  parties,  had,  as  far  as 
general  elections  go,  perhaps  only  the  drawback  of  apparent 
complexity.  A  party  list  cannot  be  more  dangerous  to  electoral 
independence  than  a  single  party  candidate  :  and  M.  Scherer 
does  not  seem  to  have  realized  that  no  party  could  possibly  be 
over-represeuted  except  by  falsification  of  the  tickets.  —  Trans.] 


JOHN   STUAKT    MILL  33 

deputy  is  determined  by  the  number  of  voters 
divided  by  that  of  the  seats  to  be  filled.  However, 
that  no  votes  may  be  lost,  those  which  are  obtained 
b^^  any  candidate  over  and  above  the  necessary  pro- 
portion are  no  longer  set  to  his  credit,  and  are  on 
each  ticket  carried  to  the  credit  of  the  candidate 
who  comes  next. 

(5)  The  complete  examination  of  the  votes 
lodged  thus  supplies  a  list  from  which  are  taken 
the  number  of  members  required  to  make  up  the 
chamber  of  representatives. 

I  must  refer  the  reader  for  more  details  to  Mr. 
Mill,  who  himself  refers  to  Mr.  Hare's  own  book. 
But  I  confess  that  I  feel  some  surprise  at  the  eager 
welcome  with  which  our  author  greets  these  pro- 
posals, for  the  objections  they  arouse  are  evident. 
Thus  one  does  not  see  how  the  desired  number  of 
representatives  can  be  assured,  unless  each  ticket 
bears  a  number  of  names  equal  to  the  total  number 
of  deputies  —  which  in  the  case  of  a  large  assem- 
bly would  lead  us  straight  to  the  absurd.  Besides, 
if  the  number  of  names  to  be  inscribed  were  re- 
duced to  a  much  smaller  figure  —  fifty,  thirty,  even 
twenty  —  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  electors, 
especially  those  of  the  lower  classes,  to  know  the 
titles  and  deserts  of  so  great  a  number  of  candi- 
dates. They  would  therefore  be  driven,  in  order 
to  fill  up  their  tickets,  to  follow  party  directions  ; 
and  this  brings  us  to  a  still  more  serious  objection. 
Mr.  Hare's  plan  would  not   prevent  the   country 


34  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITEKATUKE 

from  splitting  up  into  several  great  parties,  as 
happens  in  the  United  States  ;  nor  would  it  prevent 
these  parties  from  drawing  up  lists,  and  from  get- 
ting them  adopted  by  their  adherents.  Far  from 
attaining  the  end  it  proposes,  I  incline  to  think 
that  the  project  in  question  would  give  to  party  a 
still  more  powerful  organization,  and  would  thus 
tend  to  diminish  instead  of  to  increase  the  actual 
part  played  by  minorities.  In  this  discussion,  as  in 
many  others,  Mr.  Mill's  merit  will  be  seen  to  lie 
less  in  having  solved  the  problem  than  in  having 
stated  it  —  stated  it,  I  may  add,  with  the  clearness 
of  a  thought  which  is  always  exact,  of  a  logic  which 
is  always  rigorous. 

It  is  no  small  advantage  to  survey  a  subject 
under  the  conduct  of  a  guide  who  knows  its  by- 
ways, who  is  acquainted  with  what  has  been  said 
on  every  point,  who  has  perfect  information  and 
direction  ready  for  the  reader,  who  presents  ques- 
tions under  all  their  aspects,  who  discusses  them 
with  sagacity  and  good  faith,  who  brings  to  the 
argument  no  prejudice  and  no  passion.  Led  by 
such  a  guide,  we  feel  ourselves  advancing  with  a 
steadier  step  ;  and  we  find  that  we  have  explored 
not  a  few  scantily  known  regions.  True,  there  is 
something  higher,  something  more  precious  still. 
There  are  writers  who  have  the  eye  of  the  diviner  ; 
who  surprise  us  by  unforeseen  discoveries  and  strik- 
ing remarks  ;  who  unite  originality  with  exactness, 
depth  with   sagacity,  genius  with  talent.      These 


JOHN  STTJART   MILL  35 

men  we  meet,  few  and  far  between  in  history  ;  and 
they  mark  eras  in  the  annals  of  the  human  mind. 
Mr.  Mill,  doubtless,  is  not  of  this  number,  but  he 
ranks  immediately  below  them,  among  those  who, 
taking  to  be  their  province  the  whole  knowledge 
of  a  period,  and  carrying  into  it  complete  probity 
of  criticism,  themselves  shed  on  many  points  an 
unexpected  illumination. 


Ill 

SHAKESPEARE! 

Most  of  the  books  written  on  Shakespeare  be- 
long to  one  or  other  of  two  classes  :  they  are  either 
panegyrics  which  do  not  tell  us  much  that  is  new, 
or  commentaries  which  are  certainly  useful,  but 
which  do  not  sufiice  for  the  understanding  of  the 
poet.  There  is  no  reader  of  the  great  dramatist 
who  must  not  have  wished  to  have  at  hand  some 
substantive  work  in  which  he  might  find  informa- 
tion on  the  life  of  Shakespeare,  on  the  date  and 
order  of  his  pieces,  on  the  condition  in  which  they 
have  been  preserved,  on  the  interpretation  v^diich 
has  been  put  upon  them,  and  on  the  distinctive 
characteristics  of  their  writer's  genius.  Such  a 
book  would  make  use  of  the  labors  of  scholars 
without  losing  itself  in  detail,  and  would  endeavor 
to  please  men  of  taste  without  plunging  into  vague 
aesthetic  speculation.  But  I  am  wrong  in  speaking 
of  this  desire  as  if  nothing  had  been  done  to  satisfy 
it.  Long  ago  M.  Mézières  conceived  the  plan  of 
such  a  book  as  that  whose  programme  I  have  been 

1  Prédécesseurs    et    contemporains   de  Shakspeare.      Shak- 
speare,  ses  œuvres  et  ses   critiques.     Contemporains  et  succeS' 
seurs  de  Shakspeare.    Par  A.  Mézières.    2  édition.    3  vols. 
36 


SHAKESPEARE  37 

sketching,  and  carried  it  out  with  much  erudition 
and  much  taste.  His  vohime  on  Shakespeare  is 
certainly  the  best  hand-book  that  one  can  recom- 
mend to  readers  who  wish  to  devote  to  the  English 
poet  that  serious  study  to  which  alone  he  yields  the 
whole  secret  of  his  power.  Moreover,  M.  Mézières 
has  not  confined  himself  to  this.  As  soon  as  he 
had  resolved  to  introduce  precision  of  historical 
information  in  handling  his  subject,  it  became  im- 
possible for  him  to  omit  the  surroundings  of  Shake- 
speare —  that  is  to  say,  the  models  imitated  by  the 
poet,  the  influence  he  exercised,  and,  in  short,  the 
whole  of  the  literary  and  social  conditions  amongst 
which  he  was  produced,  and  amongst  which  we  ■■ 
must  place  him  once  more,  if  we  wish  really  to 
comprehend  him.  This  is  what  M.  Mézières  very 
clearly  saw,  and  this  is  what  gives  so  much  value 
to  his  volumes  on  the  predecessors  and  contempo- 
raries of  Shakespeare  —  the  completest  history  that 
we  have  of  the  English  theatre  up  to  the  seven- 
teenth century. 

It  is  exactly  250  years  since  Shakespeare  died  ; 
and  he  thus  belongs  to  an  age  of  full  historical 
light.  Xor  was  he  one  of  those  whose  merit  is 
unrecognized  till  long  after  their  own  day.  His  con- 
temporaries did  homage  to  his  genius,  and  the  well- 
known  verses  of  Milton  are  enough  to  show  what 
place  the  great  dramatist  held  in  the  estimation  of 
the  next  age.  And  yet  we  know  next  to  nothing 
of  the  life  of  this  extraordinary  man.     Most  of  the 


38  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

items  which  compose  his  traditional  biography, 
such  as  the  poaching  affair  which  forced  him  to 
quit  his  native  town  and  his  humble  occupations  in 
London,  before  he  trod  the  boards,  rest,  I  say,  on  no 
foundation  of  evidence.  The  history  of  his  work 
in  drama  is  to  a  great  extent  conjectural.  It  has 
even  been  doubted  whether  he  was  a  Protestant  or 
a  Catholic.  The  rather  uncertain  information  which 
we  have  in  regard  to  him  reduces  itself  to  what 
follows.  Shakespeare  belonged  to  a  middle-class 
family,  in  easy  circumstances,  and  was  born  at 
Stratford-on-Avon,  in  April,  1564.  He  was  married 
at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  was  only  twenty-two 
when  he  left  his  wife  and  children  at  Stratford  to 
go  and  seek  his  fortune  in  London.  There  he  joined 
a  troup  of  actors,  of  whom  Burbage  was  manager, 
and  was  not  long  in  distinguishing  himself,  if  not 
as  an  actor,  as  a  dramatist.  He  cultivated  other 
styles  of  poetry  at  the  same  time:  published 
''  Venus  and  Adonis  "  in  1593,  and  "  Lucrèce  "  in 
1594.  He  made  money  by  the  theatre.  We  find 
him  buying  a  house  and  lands  at  Stratford,  which 
he  liked  to  re-visit,  and  whither  he  finally  retired 
about  1G04,  at  the  age  of  forty.  But  if  he  left  the 
actual  theatre,  he  did  not  renounce  the  dramatic 
art,  and  many  of  his  works  are  posterior  to  the 
date  I  have  just  mentioned.  He  died  on  April  23, 
1616,  in  the  same  year  as  Cervantes,  twenty-four 
years  after  the  author  of  the  "  Essays,"  and  twenty 
years  before  the  production  of  the  "Cid."     These 


SHAKESPEARE  39 

dates  indicate  sufficiently  the  stage  of  formation  of 
Shakespeare's  language,  which  is  a  kind  of  English 
less  archaic  than  the  French  of  ]\rontaigne  is  to  us, 
and  yet  less  finally  settled  than  is  that  of  Corneille. 
The  authenticity  of  the  famous  portrait  known  as 
the  Chandos  Shakespeare,  and  now  belonging  to  the 
London  National  [Portrait]  Gallery,  is  not  certain 
enough  for  us  to  flatter  ourselves  with  the  idea  that 
we  know  the  poet's  features.  His  direct  descend- 
ants have  long  been  extinct.  He  left  two  married 
daughters,  who  in  their  turn  had  issue  :  but  these 
children  died  childless. 

The  strangest  thing  in  Shakespeare's  life  is  the 
indifference  which  he  seems  to  have  felt  in  regard 
to  his  reputation  as  a  dramatist.  He  published  his 
poems  and  his  sonnets  with  the  greatest  care  ;  and 
yet  he  neither  himself  caused  any  of  his  plays  to 
be  printed  nor  left  his  heirs  any  directions  to  that 
effect.  It  might  seem  that  in  writing  them  he  had 
no  other  care  than  for  theatrical  success  and  its 
contingent  profits.  And  it  must  not  be  supposed 
that  this  indifference  was  common  to  all  the  dra- 
matic w^riters  of  the  time.  Ben  Jonson,  for  his 
part,  took  as  much  pains  in  correcting  his  work  as 
in  composing  it.  But  what  complicates  the  prob- 
lem still  further,  is  that  Shakespeare's  plays  were 
in  his  lifetime  eagerly  sought  after  by  readers. 
The  proof  of  this  is  that  some  fifteen  of  them  were 
printed  and  re-printed  then  and  there,  though  with- 
out his  connivance  or  acknowledgment,  and  in  the 


40  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

most  incorrect  fashion.  They  were,  in  fact,  simple 
piracies  intended  to  satisfy  the  public  curiosity  any- 
how. Indeed,  there  were  published  under  the  poet's 
name  plays  that  were  not  his;  and  Shakespeare  did 
not  interfere  in  any  way  with  these  publications.  He 
died  :  and  it  was  not  till  seven  years  after  his  death, 
in  1623,  that  a  collection  of  his  dramatic  works  at 
last  appeared.  This  collection  announced  itself  as 
printed  from  the  originals  ;  but  nothing  could  be  less 
well  founded  than  this  assertion,  as  the  errors  of  all 
sorts  with  which  the  volume  swarms  show.  The 
editors  had  simply  followed  the  earlier  editions,  and 
where  these  failed  them,  they  had  used  copies  made 
for  the  purposes  of  the  theatre. 

It  will,  after  this,  be  understood  that  the  study 
of  Shakespeare  meets,  as  a  first  difficulty,  with  the 
absence  of  a  sufficiently  correct  and  authentic  text. 
There  are  numerous  passages  where  we  have  simply 
the  choice  of  readings  equally  doubtful,  just  as 
happens  in  the  study  of  Greek  and  Latin  authors. 
It  is  true  that  the  comparison  of  variants,  as  they 
are  called,  is  sometimes  curious  or  instructive. 
There  is  one  work  especially  in  which  by  this  means 
we  can  catch  the  poet's  genius,  as  it  were,  in  the 
act  and  fact  of  creation  :  and  this  is  "Hamlet."  We 
have  an  edition  of  this  play  in  which  it  is  hard  not 
to  recognize  the  first  draft  of  the  author's  thought. 
Polonius  is  called  Corambis.  The  progress  of  the 
piece  is  not  that  which  was  adopted  later;  and 
towards  the  end  a  scene  between  the  Queen  and 


SHAKESPEARE  41 

Horatio  has  disappeared.  Still,  though,  the  early 
version  contains  some  fine  lines  which  have  van- 
ished in  the  latter,  it  gives,  in  a  curiously  abridged 
and  imperfect  form,  the  most  celebrated  passages 
of  the  drama,  such  as  Hamlet's  soliloquy  and  that 
of  the  King  on  prayer.  In  the  same  way  we  pos- 
sess rehandlings  of  '-Eomeo  and  Juliet."  It  is 
clear  that  Shakespeare  went  back  on  his  works, 
that  he  elaborated  and  perfected  them. 

Xo  one  will  begin  the  study  of  Shakespeare  with- 
out inquiring  what  is  the  order  of  succession  in  his 
pieces.  We  feel  a  desire  to  know  what  were  his 
first  attempts,  at  what  epoch  of  his  life  he  produced 
his  masterpieces,  and  whether  his  genius  main- 
tained itself  to  the  last.  Fortunately  these  ques- 
tions are  not  so  insoluble  as  they  might  be  sup- 
posed to  be,  considering  the  obscurity  in  which 
the  author's  life  is  still  plunged.  Information  of 
various  kinds  comes  to  help  us  here,  and  we  may 
regard  the  chronology  of  Shakespeare's  theatre  as 
fairly  settled.  The  poet  began  by  reshaping  for 
acting  purposes  plays  already  existing  and  of 
unknown  authorship.  Such  was  the  origin  of 
"Titus  Andronicus,"  of  "Pericles,"  and  of  the  three 
parts  of  '•  Henry  VI."  These  pieces  thus  but  half 
belong  to  Shakespeare,  and  it  is  impossible  nowa- 
days to  determine  what  part  he  had  in  them.  The 
second  period  of  his  dramatic  life  begins  about 
1594,  when  he  was  thirty  years  old.  It  was  then 
that  he  wrote  the  plays  drawn  from  the  history  of 


42  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

England,  and  most  of  his  comedies.  His  final 
period  lasted  from  1600  to  his  death,  and  saw 
the  birth  of  his  greatest  work  —  the  four  great 
dramas  "Hamlet,"  "Othello,"  "Macbeth,"  and 
"Lear";  the  Roman  tragedies;  and  those  delight- 
ful romantic  comedies  "Cymbeline,"  "  The  Winter's 
Tale,"  and  "  The  Tempest."  It  is  taken  as  agreed 
that  Shakespeare  continued  to  write  for  the  stage 
even  after  he  had  left  London  and  returned  to 
Stratford,  and  that  "  The  Tempest  "  was  the  last 
of  his  works,  and  a  kind  of  farewell  to  the  art 
which  he  had  made  illustrious. 

A  farewell  to  art  :  we  might  let  this  expression 
pass,  on  the  understanding  that  it  is  merely  to  be 
taken  as  figurative.  But  some  have  gone  further, 
and  have  tried  to  find  in  "  The  Tempest  "  an  actual 
adieu  addressed  by  Shakespeare  to  the  public,  or, 
as  it  has  been  said  elsewhere,  the  dramatic  testa- 
ment of  the  poet,  the  epilogue  of  his  work  and  of 
his  life.  M.  Mézières  has  lent  to  this  hypothesis  the 
authority  of  his  excellent  wit,  and  quite  recently 
M.  Montegut,^  the  subtlest  and  most  ingenious 
of  our  critics,  has  reproduced  it  with  a  fulness  of 
confidence  which  may  cause  some  misapprehension 
as  to  the  strength  of  the  arguments  he  uses.  It  is 
indeed  by  no  means  the  first  time  that  the  spectacle 
of  Shakespeare,  given  up  as  a  prey  to  contradictory 
interpreters,  has  been  seen.     All  have  made  him  out 

1  [M.  Emile  Montégut,  still  (1801)  alive,  and  still  deserving 
the  description  of  him  which  M.  Scherer  gives.  —  Tnms.] 


SHAKESPEARE  43 

as  being  on  their  own  side  ;  all  have  sought  and  have 
found  in  him  just  what  they  wanted.  It  has  been 
thought  to  exalt  him  by  attributing  to  him  all  sorts 
of  profound  intentions  ;  and  Herr  Gervinus  has 
made  of  him  a  moralist  exclusively  concerned  with 
delivering  lectures  to  society.  The  attempt  is  truly 
unlucky.  For  never  did  any  genius  give  itself  up 
to  art  with  a  more  supreme  indifference  to  anything 
but  art  itself.  In  Shakespeare's  eyes,  as  he  himself 
has  told  us,  the  drama  is  simply  a  mirror  held  up 
to  ISTature,  in  which  jSTature  reflects  herself  under 
her  most  diverse  aspects.  Indeed  the  impersonality 
of  our  poet's  theatre  is  so  great  that  it  is  impossible 
to  draw  from  it  the  least  information  as  to  his  ideas, 
his  passions,  his  character.  But  if  Herr  Gervinus 
has  failed  to  perceive  this  capital  feature  of  Shake- 
speare's work,  what  are  we  to  say  of  M.  Eio,^  who 
regards  it  as  thick-sown  throughout  with  allusions 
to  the  events  of  the  time  and  the  special  situation 
of  the  poet  ?  M.  Eio  has  a  thesis  :  for  him  Shake- 
speare is  a  Catholic,  who  is  obliged  to  hide  his  faith, 
and  who  makes  up  for  it  by  slipping  into  his  scenes 
as  many  orthodox  allusions  as  he  can.  '•  Julius 
Caesar  "  becomes  a  glorification  of  Essex's  plot  ; 
"Measure  for  Measure"  is  intended  to  rehabilitate 


1  [Rio,  one  of  the  Montalembert-Lacordaire  group  of  Neo- 
Catholics,  was  a  verj^  amiable  person,  and  something  of  an 
authority  on  Christian  art,  but  not  a  man  of  much  mental  power. 
Any  folly,  however,  that  he  may  have  committed  in  interpreting 
Shakespeare  has  long  been  eclipsed  and  outstripped.  —  Tra-ns.] 


44  ESSAYS   ON    ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

the  ascetic  ideal  of  cloistered  virginity  ;  "  Othello  " 
had  been  a  crusader  —  all  evident  proofs  of  the 
author's  secret  sympathies.  But  M.  Rio  should 
have  explained  to  us  how  a  writer  so  attached  as 
Shakespeare  to  a  prescribed  form  of  worship  has 
brought  himself  in  "Komeo  and  Juliet"  to  talk  of 
an  *^  evening  mass."  However,  it  is  fair  to  recog- 
nize that  M.  Rio  has  but  exaggerated  a  proceeding 
employed  by  many  others,  both  before  and  after 
him.  It  is  a  received  doctrine  that  the  vestal  of 
whom  Oberon  speaks  in  "A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  "  (Act  ii.  scene  2)  is  no  other  than  Queen 
Elizabeth,  as  if  the  very  context  of  the  passage  did 
not  show  that  the  chaste  Phoebe  is  referred  to.^ 
The  learned  Warburton  went  further  still  when,  in 
the  same  passage,  he  applied  to  the  marriage  of 
Mary  Stuart  with  the  King  of  France's  son  the 
image  of  the  siren  on  a  dolphin's  back.  But  let  us 
return  to  M.  Montegut.  His  hypothesis  on  ''The 
Tempest  "  has  not  more  solidity  than  those  which  I 
have  just  mentioned.  It  will  not  stand  a  moment's 
examination.  It  shatters  itself  at  once  against 
literary  feeling  and  against  the  facts  ;  and  M.  Mon- 
tegut  does  not  even,  seem  to  have  formed  a  clear 
conception  of  what  he  wanted  to  prove.      Shake- 

1  [Disinclined  as  I  am  to  the  school  of  comment  which  IM. 
Scherer  is  denouncing,  I  cannot  go  with  him  here.  There  is 
certainly  no  reference  to  the  chaste  Phœbe  :  M.  Scherer  has  mis- 
interpreted the  "watery  moon,"  and  the  reference  to  Elizabeth 
is  of  the  highest  probability.  —  Trans.] 


SHAKESPEARE  45 

speare,  in  his  \ievr,  lias  in  ''  Tlie  Tempest  "  taken 
leave  of  the  public  on  the  eve  of  his  retirement  — 
it  is  his  farewell  to  the  stage.     Now  what  are  we 
to  understand  by  this  ?     That  the  poet  was  on  the 
point  of  quitting  London  to  return  to  his  native 
town  ?     But  he  had  already  resumed  his  residence 
at  Stratford  for  some  seven  or  eight  years.    That  he 
was  unwilling  to  write  any  more  for  the  stage,  out 
of  fear  of  not  keeping  up  to  his  own  standard? 
What  !    Shakespeare  feel  fears  of  this  kind  at  forty- 
seven  or  forty-eight,  in  the  vigor  of  his  age,  at  the 
very  moment  when  he  had  finished  "  The  Tempest/' 
one  of  his  masterpieces  ?     Indeed,  it  is  enough,  in 
order  to  refute  such  suppositions,  to  state  them  in 
the  terms  in  which  they  appear.     Who  can  believe 
that  Sycorax  is  literary  barbarism  ;  that  Caliban 
stands  for  the  poet  Marlowe  ;  that  the  history  of 
the  Enchanted  Isle  is,  "  stroke  for  stroke,"  the  his- 
tory of  the  English  stage — in  a  word,  that  the 
whole  piece  is  a  "synthetic  allegory"    in  which 
Shakespeare  sums  up  his  work;  a  picture  of  what 
he  has  undertaken  and  executed   "  in  the  poetical 
solitude  of  his  life  "  ?    Nor  is  this  all.     If  you  ven- 
ture to  suggest  that  the  dramatic  interest  of  the 
work  allies  itself  but  ill  with  allegoric  intentions, 
if  you  risk  the  remark  that  the  poet  may  very  well, 
after  all,  have  obeyed  the  simple  inspirations  of  his" 
creative  fancy,  the  critic  replies  that  "these  pre- 
tended rights  of  poetic  fancy  are  among  the  most 
idle  notions  of  our  time."     This,  at  any  rate,  is 


46  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   L ITERAT  ITKE 

intelligible  enough  :  it  means  that  the  poet  is  only 
a  teacher,  and  art  only  a  veil  for  instruction. 

M.  Mézières  has  discussed  the  genius  of  Shake- 
speare very  well,  seeking  what  constitutes  the  true 
greatness  of  the  poet,  and  not  conceiving  himself 
bound  to  share  either  the  concern  of  German  criti- 
cism for  system,  or  the  superstitious  reverence  of 
the  critics  of  England.  What  makes  Shakespeare's 
greatness  is  his  equal  excellence  in  every  portion 
of  his  art  —  in  style,  in  character,  and  in  dramatic 
invention.  No  one  has  ever  been  more  skilful  in 
the  playwright's  craft.  The  interest  begins  at  the 
first  scene  ;  it  never  slackens,  and  you  cannot  possi- 
bly put  down  the  book  before  finishing  it.  This 
does  not  mean  that  the  action  is  always  single. 
"  King  John  "  is  the  chronicle  of  an  entire  reign. 
There  are  two  pieces  in  "  King  Lear,"  the  story  of 
the  King  and  that  of  Edgar;  but  the  reader  is 
carried  along  by  the  rapidity  with  which  one  event 
follows  another.  Hence  it  is  that  Shakespeare's 
pieces  are  so  effective  on  the  stage  ;  they  were  in- 
tended for  it,  and  it  is  as  acted  plays  that  we  must 
judge  them.  They  are  often  played  in  Germany, 
and  always  applauded  by  the  public.  They  might 
succeed  better  still  if  the  conditions  of  representa- 
tion had  not  changed  so  much  in  the  last  century. 
We  demand  to-day  a  kind  of  scenic  illusion  to  which 
Shakespeare's  theatre  does  not  lend  itself.  The 
action  shifts  too  often  ;  you  have  to  represent 
battles,  castles,  ramparts.     The  fifth  act  of  "  Julius 


SHAKESPEARE  47 

Cœsar"  sets  before  us  ail  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
battle  of  Philippi  ;  the  fifth  act  of  ''  Kichard  the 
Third"  shows  us  the  two  rivals  encamped  and 
asleep,  so  near  each  other  that  the  ghosts  are  able 
to  speak  to  each  of  them  by  turns.  There  is  no 
modern  stage  management  which  can  overcome  such 
difficulties.  Thus  it  would  appear  that  Shakespeare 
is  destined  to  be  played  less  and  less;  but  the 
playwright's  cleverness  which  he  displays  is  not 
more  wasted  for  that.  From  it  comes  the  life,  the 
incomparable  activity,  with  which  his  pieces  are 
endowed,  and  which  is  felt  in  the  reading  no 
less  than  in  the  representation. 

If  there  is  no  drama  without  action,  neither  is 
there  any  without  character.  It  may  be  that  the 
creation  of  character  is  the  highest  function  of  art. 
There  is  nothing  which  more  resembles  divine 
power  than  the  exploit  by  which  the  poet  evokes 
from  the  depths  of  his  imagination  personages  who 
have  never  lived,  but  who  thenceforward  live  for- 
ever, and  who  will  take  a  place  in  our  memories,  in 
our  affections,  in  the  realities  of  our  world,  exactly 
as  if  they  had  been  formed  by  the  hand  of  the 
Most  High.  And  if  a  single  creation  of  this  kind 
suffices  to  immortalize  a  writer,  what  shall  we  say 
of  a  poet  who,  like  Shakespeare,  has  drawn  crowds 
of  characters,  all  different,  all  alive,  uniting  the 
most  distinct  physiognomy  and  the  intensest  real- 
ity to  the  highest  quality  of  idealism  and  poetry  ? 
The  English  dramatist  is  in  nothing  so  marvellous 


48  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

as  in  tliis.  He  is  the  magician  who  can  give  life 
to  anything  by  his  wand  ;  or  rather,  he  is  Nature 
herself,  capricious,  prodigal,  always  new,  always 
full  of  surprises  and  of  profundity.  His  person- 
ages are  not  what  are  called  heroes  ;  there  is  no 
posing  in  them  ;  there  is  no  abstraction  ;  the  idea 
has  become  incarnate,  and  develops  itself  as  a 
whole,  with  all  the  logic  of  passion,  with  all  the 
spontaneity  of  life.  The  only  thing  which  can  be 
brought  against  the  author  is  at  times  a  too  sharp 
change  —  one,  so  to  speak,  effected  on  the  stage  — 
in  the  sentiments  of  his  characters.  Aufidius,  for 
example,  passes  too  quickly  from  hatred  to  sorrow 
when  he  sees  Coriolanus  fall  ;  and  in  "  Richard 
III."  Anne  accepts  with  too  great  ease  the  ring  of 
the  man  on  whom  she  has  just  spit  in  contempt  ; 
while  Elizabeth  is  too  quick  in  giving  her  daughter 
to  the  man  who  has  just  massacred  her  sons.  This 
is  certainly  turning  the  corner  too  sharply,  and 
there  is  a  want  of  truth  in  it. 

I  think  that  something  of  the  same  kind  may  be 
said  of  Shakespeare's  style.  The  language  which 
he  puts  in  the  mouths  of  his  characters  is  not 
always  appropriate  —  is  sometimes  far  from  being 
appropriate  —  to  the  circumstances,  even  to  the 
characters  themselves.  The  poet  delights  too  much 
in  the  expression  for  itself  and  its  own  sake.  He 
dwells  on  it,  he  lingers  over  it,  he  plays  with 
equivalents  and  synonyms.  Menenius  thus  com- 
plains of  the  change  which  has  occurred  in  Corio- 


SHAKESPEARE  49 

lanus's  humor: — ''The  tartness  of  his  face  sours 
ripe  grapes  :  when  he  walks  he  moves  like  an 
engine,  and  the  ground  shrinks  before  his  treading: 
he  is  able  to  pierce  a  corselet  with  his  eye  :  talks 
like  a  knell,  and  his  hum  is  a  battery.  He  sits  in 
his  state  as  a  thing  made  for  Alexander.  What  he 
bids  be  done  is  finished  with  his  bidding.  He  wants 
nothing  of  a  god  but  eternity  and  a  heaven  to  throne 
in" — I  take  this  quotation  at  random  to  exemplify 
what  I  mean.  The  form  in  this  poet  sometimes 
overruns  in  this  fashion  ;  the  expression  is  redun- 
dant and  out  of  proportion  to  the  situation.  This 
remark  applies  still  better  to  the  conceits  and  the 
word-plays  which  Shakespeare,  without  troubling 
himself  about  the  occasion,  puts  in  everybody's 
mouth.  The  most  pathetic  speeches  are  not  free 
from  them.  It  is  not  that  the  author  is  not  con- 
scious of  the  incongruity  of  these  quips. 

Do  sick  men  play  so  nicely  with  their  names  ? 

asks  Eichard  III.  of  the  Duke  of  Lancaster,  and  it 
is  certain  that  his  last  works  have  much  fewer  of 
these  blots  than  his  first.  But  if  there  is  some- 
times ill-placed  wit  in  our  poet,  what  verve  is  there 
in  this  wit,  what  gayety,  what  exuberance  !  With 
what  freedom  and  caprice  does  fancy  develop  itself! 
How  well  (to  employ  an  expression  of  Madame  de 
Staël's)  do  excess  and  license  of  talent  suit  this 
unbounded  invention  !  And  we  must  also  say  at 
once   that   this   wit   is  but  one  of   Shakespeare's 


60  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

qualities.  He  possesses  imagination  and  feeling 
in  at  least  e(iual  measure.  He  has  felt  everything, 
has  understood  everything.  No  man  has  lived 
more,  has  observed  more,  has  better  reproduced 
the  outward  world.  And  yet  he  is  at  the  same 
time  the  most  lyrical  of  poets;  he  expresses  in 
finished  form,  in  inimitable  poetry,  all  the  emo- 
tions of  the  heart.  He  says  things  as  no  one  else 
says  them,  in  a  manner  at  once  strange  and  strik- 
ing. He  has  unbelievable  depths,  subtlenesses  of 
intuition  as  unbelievable.  There  rises  from  his 
writings  a  kind  of  emanation  of  supreme  wisdom  ; 
and  it  seems  that  their  very  discords  melt  into 
some  transcendent  harmony.  Shakespeare  has 
enlarged  the  domain  of  the  mind,  and,  take  him 
all  in  all,  I  do  not  believe  that  any  man  has  added 
more  than  he  has  to  the  patrimony  of  mankind. 


IV 

DANIEL  DERONDAi 

Facilitatixg  communications  does  no  good.  We 
are  still  as  far  from  England  as  if  she  were  at  the 
Antipodes.  The  differences  which  part  us  have 
their  origin  in  race,  in  historical  development,  in 
religion  ;  and  they  betray  themselves  every  moment 
in  the  spirit  which  animates  institutions,  governs 
manners,  and  presides  over  literature.  English  lit- 
erature in  particular,  lending  itself  to  what  may  be 
called  a  verification  of  fact,  daily  gives  us  palpable 
proofs  of  the  extent  to  which  England  is  still  a 
foreign  country  to  us.  Which  of  us  has  any  notion 
of  the  intellectual  activity  that  occupies  our  neigh- 
bors ?  Who  has  even  a  superficial  knowledge  —  a 
knowledge  even  of  the  names  —  of  the  schools  of 
poetry  which  follow  each  other  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel,  and  divide  the  interest  and  the 
admiration  of  the  public  there?  But  the  most 
striking  example,  in  my  eyes,  of  the  ignorance  of 
the  concerns  of  English  literature  in  which  we  live 
is  as  follows.  There  lives  in  England  to-day,  in  the 
full  victor  of  her  talent,  a  woman-writer  inferior  to 
no  one   of  the   sex,  except   [Madame   de  Staël,  in 

1  By  George  Eliot.    1S76.    4  vols. 

51 


52  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

depth,  brilliancy,  and  flexibility  of  genius.  This 
lady  has  published  half  a  dozen  novels,  each  one 
of  which  is  a  masterpiece.  Every  work  that  comes 
from  her  pen  becomes  at  once  the  event  of  the  day, 
holds  the  attention  of  the  nation,  is  the  subject  of 
all  talk,  sets  all  critics  at  defiance,  interests  the 
thinker  almost  as  much  as  it  delights  the  artist  and 
strikes  the  fancy  of  the  man  of  the  world.  Well, 
this  writer  is  almost  unknown  in  France  ;  the 
translations  of  some  of  her  books  which  have  been 
risked  have  found  no  public  ;  her  name  is  lacking 
in  the  "  Dictionnaire  des  Contemporains,"  and  when 
our  reviews  have  spoken  of  Mrs.  Lewes,^  it  has 
been  oftenest  in  the  most  superficially  superior 
manner,  and  Avith  absolute  incompetence  to  judge. 

Miss  Evans,  now  Mrs.  Lewes,  who  has  published 
the  whole  of  her  imaginative  work  under  the 
pseudonym  of  George  Eliot,  was  born  about  1820. 
Up  to  the  age  of  thirty-six  she  had  only  employed 
her  talents  and  knowledge  in  publications  dealing 
w^ith  philosophy  and  theology;  at  this  epoch  she 
sought  another  career,  and  wrote  her  first  story, 
"Amos  Barton,"  which  was  quickly  followed  by 
two  others,  and  forms  with  them  the  "  Scenes  of 
Clerical  Life,"  published  originally  in  1857  in 
*'  Blackwood's  Magazine."     The  success  of  this  ex- 

1  [As  a  faithful  translator  I  keep  my  author's  form.  It  is 
needless  to  say  that  George  Eliot  was  not  Mrs.  Lewes  ;  and  M. 
Scherer,  as  a  later  essay  {vide  infra)  shows,  was  aware  of  the 
fact.  —  Trans.] 


DANIEL  DERONDA  53 

périment  determined  the  author's  vocation,  and  she 
successively  enriched  the  literature  of  her  country 
with  those  incomparable  masterpieces,  "Adam 
Bede,"  "The  Mill  on  the  iloss,"  and  "Middle- 
march."  I  purposely  leave  on  one  side  "  Komola,"*; 
an  Italian  story  of  the  fifteenth  century,  because 
general  opinion  has  not  ratified  the  admiration  of 
some  and  the  evident  partiality  of  the  author  her- 
self for  this  work,  and  especially  because  I  have 
never  been  able  to  overcome  the  aversion,  bordering  5 
on  disgust,  with  which  the  chief  character  inspires  '■ 
me.  We  have  here,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  first  trace 
of  the  moralizing  or  didactic  tendencies  to  which'; 
George  Eliot  leans,  and  which  go  near  to  dim  the 
purity  of  her  aesthetic  sense.  It  would  seem,  too, 
that  this  great  writer  is  completely  at  home,  and 
has  the  full  use  of  all  her  resources,  in  pictures  of 
English  life  only.  "  Felix  Holt  the  Eadical  "  was 
another  mistake,  though  in  a  different  style,  and 
was  the  only  one  of  George  Eliot's  novels  which 
public  opinion  let  pass  with  something  like  indiffer- 
ence. "  Silas  Marner,"  on  the  other  hand,  a  short 
story  which  appeared  in  1861,  and  which  I  then 
reviewed,  remains  one  of  the  most  delicate  and 
perfect  works  of  this  great  novelist. 

What  marks  George  Eliot  off  from  her  fellows  is 
her  possession,  in  a  higher  degree,  of  all  the  quali- 
ties that  make  the  novelist.  Her  inventive  power 
is  shown  by  stories  where  the  unexpectedness  of 
the  situation   is  not  obtained  at   any  sacrifice  of 


54  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

^  probability,  and  where  the  development  of  events 
always  proceeds  from  that  of  the  characters.  Be- 
sides, George  Eliot  does  not  merely  imagine  sit- 
uations ;  she  works  them  out,  and  the  reader's 
greatest  surprise  is  to  see  the  writer  constantly  ris- 
ing to  the  height  of  the  catastrophe  whicli  she  has 
brought  about.  She  throws  her  characters  into 
tragic  or  delicate  adventures,  she  makes  explana- 
tions imperative,  she  provokes  a  supreme  crisis, 
and  she  gets  herself  out  of  the  difficulty  with  so 
much  ease,  so  much  power,  and  so  much  nature, 
that  the  reader  is  divided  between  the  emotion  pro- 
duced by  the  story  and  the  admiration  challenged 
by  the  writer's  success.  But  this  is  not  her  only 
superiority.  In  George  Eliot  description  is  never 
there  for  its  own  sake,  as  happens  in  the  produce 
of  inferior  art.  It  is  subordinate  to  the  action, 
which  it  frames  and  surrounds,  and  is  none  the  less 
full  of  traits  which  show  an  eye  as  well  trained  to 
the  observation  of  nature  as  to  that  of  the  human 
heart.  The  dialogue,  which  in  some  very  great 
novelists  is  the  weak  place,  wdiich  in  their  hands 
so  often  misses  truth  and  precision  of  shade,  which 
they  make  rather  an  occasion  of  putting  forth  ideas 
and  showing  wit  than  a  means  of  dramatic  devel- 
opment, is  in  George  Eliot's  novels  always  in  its 
right  place.  It  is  fitted  to  the  characters  ;  it  varies 
with  them  ;  it  is  now  witty,  now  pathetic,  it  ex- 
presses the  most  opposite  sentiments,  and  renders 
the  most  diverse  individualities.     And  it  does  all 


DAXIEL   DERONDA  55 

this  without  effort,  without  ever   striking  a  false 
note,  and  as  if  this  lady,  who  has  actually  lived  a 
life  of  retirement  and  work,  had  felt  and  under- 
stood and  gone  through  everything.     It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  there  is  something  Shakespearian 
in  this.     And  yet  we  have  not  come  to  the  end  of 
the  qualities  which  make  our  author  the  first  of 
contemporary  novelists  ;    for  it  is  in  creating  her 
characters  that  she    especially  shows  her  genius. 
There  is  not  one  of  her  works  which  h.as  not  be- 
stowed upon  the  literature  of  her  country  some  of 
those  figures  which,  once  seen,  abide  in  the  mem- 
ory of  men,  more'  real,  more  living,  than  the  actual 
heroes  of  history.     Her  sketches  of  women,  as  one 
might  expect,  are  especially  wonderful  ;  and  yet  do 
the  characters  of   Tito   and  of   Grandcourt   come 
much  short  of  Maggie  and  of  Rosamond  ?    Is  there 
not  the  same  psychological  profundity  in  them  ? 
Do  we  not  perceive  throughout  the  glance  which 
divines  all  motives,  which  lays  bare  all  feelings, 
and  which  would  be  more  pitiless  than  remorse 
itself  if  the  author's  penetration  were  not  equalled 
by  her  tenderness  for  human  weakness  and  human 
suifering  ?     George  Eliot  has  created   a   kind   in 
which  she  will  have  no  successor,  because  we  shall 
never  again  see  the  qualities  of  the  thinker  so  com- 
bined with  those  of  the  artist.     Hers  is  the  novel 
of  moral  analysis.     There  is  her  speciality,  there 
her   triumph.      Story,   description,   reflection,    dia- 
logue —  all   in    her   writings   is   ancillary   to    the 


56  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

painting  of  the  secret  movements  of  the  mind,  to 
the  study  of  the  human  conscience;  while  the 
minuteness  of  her  observation  never  hurts  either 
the  vigorous  realism  of  her  writing,  the  personality 
of  her  creations,  or  the  passionate  interest  of  her 
drama. 

I  have  as  yet  said  nothing  of  George  Eliot's 
fashion  of  writing.  Indeed,  it  is  possible  to  ques- 
tion whether  this  author  has  what  we  call  a  style. 
Her  narrative  manner  is  so  simple,  and  her  dialogue 
so  natural,  that  we  hardly  notice  in  her  the  writer 
properly  so  called.  Even  the  wit  and  humor  which 
she  scatters  broadcast,  the  acuteness  of  her  reflec- 
tions, the  felicity  of  her  comparisons,  the  unex- 
pectedness of  her  remarks,  the  tenderness  or  the 
strength  of  her  sentiment,  never  in  any  case  sink, 
with  George  Eliot,  into  passages  written  for  effect. 
In  other  words,  you  must  not  look,  in  her  writings, 
for  the  eloquent  pages,  the  passages  finished  and, 
so  to  speak,  "hit  off,"  that  are  met  in,  for  instance, 
George  Sand.  Her  talent  is  more  restrained,  her 
art  more  severe.  On  the  other  hand,  we  here  ap- 
proach a  fault  which  is  obvious  in  George  Eliot's 
later  writings.  Possessing  great  qualities  of  dic- 
tion, and  with  uncommon  and  happy  phrases  at 
will,  this  writer  has  for  some  time  past  taken  to 
/the  habit  of  condensing  her  thought  and  her  ex- 
pression to  the  point  of  obscurity.  This  happens 
•^  especially  at   the  end  of    her  chapters,  when  she 

speaks  in  her  own  person  and  sums  up  her  own 


DANIEL  DERONDA  57 

reflections.  Her  pen  then  falls  into  a  mixture  of 
abstract  ideas  and  minutely  detailed  images  in  which 
it  is  hard  to  seize  the  thought.  This  fault  of  taste, 
unaccountable  in  so  great  a  writer,  had  appeared 
already  as  a  blot  on  "Middlemarch";  it  seems  to  me 
a  little  less  prominent  in  "  Daniel  Deronda."  But 
I  cannot  understand  how  there  is  no  adviser  of 
sufficient  authority  at  the  ^vriter's  elbow  to  point 
out  to  her  boldly  that  she  is  in  danger  of  entering 
on  a  mistaken  course.  One  would  gladly  cry  out 
to  her,  "  Pray,  what  on  earth  are  you  thinking  of  ? 
Why  so  many  efforts  when  what  is  wanted  is  just 
the  contrary  —  straightforward  language  ?  Why 
close  your  ranks  at  mere  cost  of  labor  when  you 
ought  rather  to  deploy  ?  Break  the  phrases  you 
are  linking  so  painfully  !  Divide  the  periods  you 
are  so  scientifically  building  up  !  Let  yourself  float, 
0  accomplished  artist  !  on  the  limpid  and  copious 
style  which  only  asks  permission  to  flow  from  your 
pen." 

However,  the  fault  of  which  I  have  just  spoken 
is  but  a  blot  which  is  easy  to  avoid  or  to  efface  ; 
one  feels  that  a  mere  warning  would  be  enough  to 
make  the  author  correct  herself  of  it.  It  is  not 
quite  the  same,  I  fear,  with  a  peculiarity  of  George 
Eliot's  intellectual  and  moral  nature,  which,  after 
having  been  one  of  the  elements  of  her  strength  and 
one  of  the  causes  of  her  success,  threatens  at  the 
present  moment  to  damage  her  art  and  her  work. 
It  is  a  curious  thing,  a  paradox  which  we  reject 


58  ESSAYS    OX    ENGLISH    LIÏE11ATUKE 

even  when  it  forces  itself  on  us  with  resistless 
proof,  but  the  writer's  own  superiority  here  turns 
against  her,  and  she  is  hurt  by  tlie  strength  of  her 
individuality.  In  saying  this  I  am  thinking  more 
particularly  of  George  Eliot's  new  novel  ;  so  I  must 
begin  by  giving  the  reader  some  notion  of  it. 

In  "  Middlemarch  "  there  were  three  stories,  some- 
what laboriously,  but  on  the  whole  ingeniously, 
welded  together.  In  "  Daniel  Deronda  "  there  are 
two  —  two  narratives  which  are  simply  placed  side 
by  side  ;  two  works  differing  in  the  kind  of  inter- 
est which  they  are  intended  to  arouse  ;  two  novels, 
in  short,  one  of  which  is  a  failure,  while  the  other 
takes  rank  among  George  Eliot's  finest  creations. 
The  second  of  these  novels,  the  one  we  should  like 
to  separate  from  the  other,  is  the  history  of  Gwen- 
dolen and  Grandcourt.  Some  inconsistencies  have 
been  detected  in  the  outlining  of  these  characters  ; 
but,  on  the  whole,  the  author  has  certainly  added 
two  original  figures  to  the  list  of  her  masterpieces. 
If  she  has  elsewhere  drawn  others  more  complete, 
stronger,  more  striking  from  their  moral  unity, 
she  has  created  none  of  such  science  and  of  such 
depth.  Here  are  two  names  henceforward  familiar 
I  to  all  those  who  read  ;  two  beings  wdiose  life  is  in- 
1  extricably  mingled  with  ours  ;  two  types  to  which 
\  we  shall  involuntarily  refer  this  personage  and  that 
with  whom  we  rub  shoulders  on  the  world's  stage. 

I  can  see  Grandcourt  before  me  as  I  write.     I 
recognize  his  pale  face,  his  placid  and  disdainful 


DANIEL   DERONDA  69 

demeanor.  Between  his  fingers  is  the  eternal  cigar,  on 
Ms  lips  the  oath  of  ill-temper  or  the  yawn  of  ennui. 
A  stranger  to  all  moral  life,  he  knows  nothing  of 
men  but  their  foibles  and  their  follies  ;  and  if  he  is 
at  any  time  in  danger  of  being  deceived,  it  will  be 
merely  for  want  of  understanding  disinterested  feel- 
ings. A  thorough  blasé,  he  has  no  pleasure  left  but 
oppressing  others  ;  the  last  enjoyment  left  to  this 
connoisseur  is  in  ill-treating  his  dogs,  giving  pain 
to  his  inferiors,  tyrannizing  over  his  wife,  provoking 
rebellion  in  order  to  crush  it.  Tliere  is  meanness 
under  the  elegant  manners  that  are  never  "out," 
cruelty  beneath  this  well-bred  coldness,  a  monster 
inside  the  correct  and  polished  gentleman.  Hatred 
never  was  so  self-restrained,  ill-nature  so  well- 
mannered.  His  impassibility  as  a  tormentor,  the 
indifference  of  his  persecution,  the  phlegm  with 
which  he  crushes  a  victim,  give  an  impression  of 
power  for  evil  such  as  literature  did  not  before  con- 
tain. It  is  scarcely  possible  to  lose  our  temper 
with  a  man  who  never  loses  his  own  ;  we  feel  that 
it  would  give  him  an  advantage  ;  his  calm  drives 
one  frantic,  he  is  above  the  very  horror  which  he 
inspires.     A  terrible  and  an  astonishing  creation  ! 

The  portrait  of  Gwendolen  is  still  more  carefully 
studied,  and  if  it  does  not  strike  the  reader  so  much, 
it  is  because  this  character,  as  George  Eliot  con- 
ceived it,  involves  a  transformation  so  thorough  as 
to  seem  like  an  inconsistency.  Gwendolen  possesses 
the  formidable  power  of  beauty  :  she  knows  it  :  and 


GO  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

she  has  early  acquired  the  egotism  which  often  accom- 
panies the  consciousness  of  recognized  superiority. 
Accustomed  from  lier  infancy  to  see  her  mother  and 
sisters  the  slaves  of  her  caprices,  she  will  carry 
with  her  into  society  the  assurance  of  victory,  which 
is  one  of  its  guarantees,  the  haughty  grace  which, 
is  made  more  piquant  by  her  spoilt-child's  fancies, 
her  impatience,  her  very  imprudence  itself.  She  is 
wilful,  but  purposelessly  so;  ambitious,  but  with, 
no  passionate  desires  :  she  asks  nothing  of  life  but 
excitement,  brilliant  success,  the  intoxication  of 
flattery,  the  exercise  of  despotic  power.  And  yet 
Gwendolen's  nature  is  not  corrupt.  Ignorant,  frivo- 
lous, worldly  as  she  is,  living  and  breathing  as  she 
does  for  nothing  but  pleasure,  she  still  possesses  a 
kind  of  innocence.  There  is  in  her  the  germ  of  a 
higher  life  which  only  waits  for  the  contact  of  some 
influence  to  shoot.  It  is  this  germination  of  the 
ideal  in  the  heart  of  a  woman  given  up  to  society 
that  George  Eliot  has  tried  to  paint.  With  a  thor- 
oughly feminine  intuition,  she  has  represented  her 
heroine  as  needing  some  attachment  to  quit  com- 
monplace life,  and  needing  a  man  to  serve  her  as 
a  conscience.  She  only  begins  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  herself  when  she  recognizes  the  arbiter  of  her 
existence  in  a  strong  and  pure  being.  Alas  !  this 
moral  revelation  is  not  enough  for  our  poor  Gwen° 
dolen  ;  she  needs,  in  addition,  the  hard  school  of 
suffering.  She  marries  Grandcourt  to  escape  the 
mediocrity  of  her  fortune,  and  becomes  the  victim 


DANIEL   DERONDA  61 

of  a  hateful  tyrant.  The  picture  of  this  hidden 
agony  is  terrible.  How  powerfully  does  the  author 
show  us  the  beauty,  lately  envied  and  worshipped,  as 
she  is  tamed,  little  by  little,  by  the  cold-blooded 
ferocity  of  her  husband  !  She  swallows  her  humil- 
iations, she  hates  the  wealth  for  which  she  has  bar- 
tered her  soul  ;  she  soon  gives  up  a  resistance 
which  she  knows  to  be  vain.  Overcome  by  the 
resentment  which  springs  from  forced  hypocrisy 
and  by  the  hatred  which  springs  from  habitual 
fear,  aghast  at  this  very  hatred  against  whose 
promptings  she  feels  herself  powerless,  urged  to 
despair,  and  taking  temporary  refuge  in  the  hope  of 
accidents  that  my  free  her,  and  so  open  a  door  of 
escape  from  the  promptings  of  revenge,  she  thus 
in  thought  draws  near  to  crime.  Then,  at  last, 
when  Grandcourt  one  day  falls  overboard,  she  hesi- 
tates to  give  him  her  hand  or  the  rope  that  might 
have  saved  him  —  hesitates  for  a  second  only,  but 
long  enough  for  it  to  be  too  late,  and  then  flings 
herself  after  him  in  an  agony  of  despair,  remorse, 
and  horror.  Even  in  the  work  of  George  Eliot 
there  are  few  things  so  powerful  as  this  moral 
tragedy.  A  little  further,  we  shall  find  the  author 
trying  ('.'ery  much  in  vain  to  my  thinking)  to  show 
us  a  Gwendolen  consoled,  raised  from  the  dust, 
ready  to  seek  the  expiation  of  her  faults  and  the 
business  of  her  life  in  good  works.  The  Gwendolen 
who  is  a  sister  of  charity  and  the  Lady  Bountiful 
of  the  neighboring  schools  is  not  the  Gwendolen 


62  ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

we  have  known.  lier  conversion  almost  necessa- 
rily strikes  a  false  note  in  the  story,  inasmuch  as 
it  violates  the  logical  consistency  of  human  char, 
acter.  Conversion  means  the  introduction  of  the 
supernatural  and  the  ascetic  :  elements  which  have 
their  place  in  moral  therapeutics,  but  which  are 
rebellious  towards  art. 

I  repeat  that  the  story  of  Gwendolen  and  Grand- 
court  takes  its  place  beside  the  author's  best  work  : 
and  that,  if  the  character-drawing  is  not  stronger,  it 
is  at  any  rate  subtler  and  more  scientific.  Gwendo- 
len's conversation  with  Klesmer  on  her  vocation  as 
an  actress,  her  interview  with  Mirah  when  she 
wishes  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  the  rumors  she  has 
heard  about  Deronda,  the  tragedy  on  board  the 
boat  in  the  Gulf  of  Genoa,  the  good-byes  and  the 
confessions  at  the  moment  of  final  separation,  are 
among  the  scenes,  hard  to  manage,  or  even  unman- 
ageable, where  the  genius  of  George  Eliot,  compact 
at  once  of  tact  and  power,  breaks  out  in  all  its 
supremacy.  There  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  lack 
(save  in  some  secondary  characters,  such  as  little 
Jacob,  Hans  Meyrick,  and  Sir  Hugo  Mallinger)  of 
humor.  We  are  in  this  respect  far  from  the  inimita- 
ble creations  of  the  early  novels —  Mrs.  Poyser,poor 
Mr.  Tulliver,  the  Dodson  sisters.  We  do  not  feel 
in  '^  Daniel  Deronda  "  what  the  author  lierself  has  so 
happily  called  "  the  pure  enjoyment  of  comicality,'^ 
the  amusement  which  is  produced  by  the  sight  of 
innocent  foibles,  of  candid  vanity,  of  things  absurd 


DAKIEL  DEROKDA  63 

but  not  evil.     The  morbid  anatomy  of  conscience,  ( 
in  which  the  author  seems  to  take  more  and  more  ( 
pleasure,  has  in  this  instance  saddened  her  pencil.  / 
But  once  more,  after  allowing  for  all  this,  and  after   ' 
reducing  it  to  the  persons  and  the  things  which  I  have 
just  mentioned,  George  Eliot's  new  novel  remains 
a  very  great  and  very  strong  thing.     Unluckily,  it 
is    mixed  up  with    a    secondary   story,    which    is, 
indeed,  clearly  distinguished  and  easily  separable 
from  it,  but  which  is  its  inferior  in  every  way,  and 
the  dead  weight  of  which  has  dragged  both  itself  and 
its  fellow  to  shipwreck.      For  a  shipwreck  I  fear 
there  has  been.      The  admiring  partiality  of  the 
English    for    their   great    novelist   indeed   refuses 
to  recognize   any  lessening   of   talent  in   "Daniel 
Deronda  "  ;  but  it  cannot  help  confessing  that  the 
author  has  not  succeeded  in  interesting  the  public 
in  '•  her  Jews,"  that  all  the  Israelitish  part  of  the 
book  is  wearisome  —  in  short,  that  there  is  in  it  an 
inexplicable  error  of  taste  and  of  judgment. 

The  Jewish  romance  which  George  Eliot  has 
cobbled  on  to  the  history  of  Gwendolen  is  composed 
of  certain  historical  and  philosophical  theories 
personified  in  some  half-dozen  Hebrews  ;  but  the 
theories  are  vague,  and  the  personages  have  no 
individuality.  I  cannot  recall  in  the  preceding 
works  of  George  Eliot  anything  like  the  feature- 
lessness  of  the  characters  she  has  drawn  here.  It 
is  evident  that  the  author  has  taken  every  care, 
has   used  every  exertion,  to  interest  us  in  Daniel 


64  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Deronda,  in  Mirah,  and  in  Mordecai,  and  it  is  pain- 
ful to  see  that  her  pains  have  been  so  entirely 
wasted.  Mordecai  is  a  mere  visionary,  who  fails 
to  win  us  over  to  his  schemes,  because  he  never 
explains  them,  and  because  the  little  we  can  divine 
is  childish.  Mirah  may  be  charming  ;  but  we  have 
to  take  the  author's  word  for  it,  inasmuch  as, 
though  she  tells  us  so,  she  never  gives  proof  of  the 
fact,  and  has  not  been  able  to  make  anything  of 
the  character  but  a  kind  of  wax  doll  which  will  say 
"  papa  "  and  "  mamma  "  if  bidden.  As  for  Deronda, 
who  gives  his  name  to  the  book,  and  clearly  ought 
to  be  its  hero,  he  is  an  intolerable  kind  of  Grandison, 
with  a  moral  always  on  his  lij^s,  a  humanitarian 
crotchet  always  in  his  head,  one  of  those  beings 
who  are  doubtless  required  for  the  accomplishment 
of  all  sorts  of  useful  tasks,  but  whom  we  should  be 
very  sorry  to  meet  in  the  world  —  beings  as  tedious 
as  they  are  estimable,  as  teasing  as  they  are  blame- 
less. Besides,  how  describe  the  menta,l  state  of  a 
man  who  cannot  hide  his  delight  when  he  learns 
that,  instead  of  being  an  Englishman,  as  he  has 
hitherto  believed,  he  is  of  Jewish  birth  !  As  lief  a 
Jew  as  anything  else,  if  you  like.  The  wise  man 
attaches  but  relative  importance  to  matters  which 
do  not  depend  on  ourselves.  But  why  this  par- 
ticular rapture  at  finding  oneself  a  member  of  a 
scattered  nation,  a  descendant  of  a  race  doomed  to 
be  merged  in  others,  as  many  nobler  nations  have 
been   doomed    also  ?      One   thing   ought   to   have 


DAKIEL  DERONDA  65 

warned  the  author  that  her  ideas  on  Judaism  were 
false  —  to  Vit,  that  she  herself  has  not  managed  or 
has  not  dared  to  give  clear  expression  to  them  any- 
where. She  has  left  them  in  the  hopeless  vague- 
ness of  Mordecai's  rhapsodies.  The  only  clue  to  be 
found  on  this  point  is  in  a  passage  where  it  is  said 
that  every  Jewish  family  ought  to  regard  itself  as 
fated  to  give  birth  to  the  Liberator  ;  and  in  another, 
according  to  which  the  people  of  God  are  to  be 
reassembled  and  reconstituted  in  the  ancient  Prom- 
ised Land.  But  what  ground  has  an  author  for 
risking  views  or  nourishing  hopes  like  these  ?  Can 
it  be  the  Old  Testament  prophecies  ?  Does  George 
Eliot  share  the  belief  of  those  fanatical  and  narrow- 
minded  millenarians  to  be  met  with  now  and  then 
among  Protestants,  who,  on  the  strength  of  certain 
texts,  imagine  that  Jerusalem  will  become  the 
queen  of  all  nations  and  the  centre  of  the  world  ? 
Xothing  of  the  kind,  for  George  Eliot  is  one  of  the 
freest  thinkers  of  our  time,  one  of  those  most  dis- 
embarrassed of  all  theological  hypothesis.  So  that 
we  have  here  before  us  the  interesting  contradic- 
tion of  a  writer  vrho  rejects  the  supernatural  ele- 
ment in  the  belief  of  the  Jews,  and  yet  pleads  for 
the  re-establishment  of  a  people  whose  nationality 
consists  precisely  in  this  belief.  We  cannot  help 
asking  one  another  what  she  means  —  whether 
Judaism  Eestored  will  re-establish  the  temple  of 
Jehovah  and  renew  the  sacrifice  of  bulls  and  sheep, 
or  whether  it  is  to  be  a  rationalized  Judaism,  the 


66  ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

Chosen  People  without  its  sacred  books,  without 
its  institution,  without  its  faith  —  in  short,  without 
everything  which  has  given  it  existence  and  char- 
acter. These  reflections  supply  at  the  same  time 
an  answer  to  an  argument  by  which  George  Eliot's 
mind  has  evidently  been  haunted.  Struck  by  cer- 
tain gn^at  facts  of  recent  history,  astonished  at 
the  force  which  the  sentiment  of  nationality  has 
suddenly  exerted  as  an  historical  influence,  brood- 
ing over  the  instances  of  Germany  and  of  Italy,  she 
asked  herself  why  the  principle  in  question  should 
not  avail  the  scattered  children  of  Israel,  and  failed 
to  perceive  that  the  case  of  the  Jews  is  altogether 
peculiar.  Of  the  four  elements  of  nationality  — 
community  of  race,  community  of  religion,  com- 
munity of  language,  and  community  of  territory  — 
they  lack  the  two  last  wholl}^,  and  the  second  itself 
is  at  tliis  moment  much  more  a  memory  than  an 
effectual  and  living:  belief. 

It  is  well  said  by  Sir  Hugh  Mallinger,  one  of  the 
characters  of  the  novel,  when  he  cries  out  as  De- 
ronda  begins  to  set  forth  his  views  on  Judaism, 
"For  heaven's  sake,  don't  be  eccentric!  I  can  put 
up  with  differences  of  opinion  :  all  I  ask  is  that  peo- 
ple will  inform  me  of  them  without  giving  them- 
selves lunatic  airs.'^  But  this  is  the  exact  charge 
I  bring  against  Deronda.  This  young  fellow,  who 
is  set  before  us  as  at  once  a  model  of  self-devotion 
and  of  good  sense,  is  the  slave  of  a  chimera,  and 
of  the  most  uninteresting  chimera  that  imagination 


DANIEL   DEROXDA  67 

ever  created.  I  must  dwell  on  tins  absence  of  in- 
terest ;  for,  in  fact,  it  is  the  root  of  the  matter.  If 
these  visons  on  the  destinies  of  the  Jewish  people 
are  to  interest  us,  they  must  present  either  lively 
strokes  of  manners,  or  else  some  genial  conception. 
The  writer  would  have  been  entitled  to  give  them 
a  place  in  her  story  if  the  beliefs  in  question  were 
deeply  and  distinctively  characteristic  of  Jewish 
life  in  the  nineteenth  century  ;  but  we  all  know 
that  they  are  nothing  of  the  kind.  That  being  so, 
she  should  have  confined  herself  to  s^ivinsr  her 
views  on  the  subject  in  the  piquant  shape  of  a  per- 
sonal paradox.  In  its  actual  form,  the  Jewish 
episode  of  "  Daniel  Deronda  "  remains  one  of  the 
most  inexplicable  mistakes  into  which  a  great 
writer  has  ever  fallen. 

In  consequence,  no  admirer  of  George  Eliot  has 
failed,  as  he  read  her  new  novel,  to  ask  himself  the 
question,  ^-  ]\[ust  we  note  here  a  beginning  of  deca- 
dence ?  Can  it  be  that  the  vein,  hitherto  so  abun- 
dant and  well-sustained,  is  beginning  to  dry  up  ? 
Can  the  talent  of  this  incomparable  lady  be  in  its 
decline  ?  "  For  my  part,  I  do  not  formulate  the 
problem  quite  thus  :  for  there  might  be  a  failure 
here,  and  yet  it  need  not  be  a  proof  of  lessened 
strength.  Besides,  as  I  have  said,  there  are  to  be 
found  in  "Daniel  Deronda"  characters,  scenes, 
strokes,  which  yield  in  no  respect  to  those  which 
made  the  reputation  of  the  earlier  work.  But  one 
thinsr  seems  to  me  undeniable  :  that  certain  distinc- 


68  ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

tive  elements  in  George  Eliot's  genius  have  at  last 
got  the  upper  hand,  and  have  disturbed  the  balance 
of  her  faculties.     She  has,  as  constantly  happens, 
qualities  which  have  become  defects.     The  charm 
of  her  work  springs  in  great  part  from  a  certain 
depth  of  thought  ;  a  resigned  and  patieut  sense  of 
the  conditions  of  human  life  ;  a  morality  which  is  at 
once  lofty  and  kindly,  at  once  implacable  in  analy- 
sis and  pardoning  much  because  it  comprehends  all. 
George  Eliot  is  an  idealist  enamoured  of  good,  a 
philosopher  interested  in  ideas,  and  a  consummate 
artist  all  in  one  —  an  artist  unequalled  in  creative 
genius  and  in  plastic  force.     This  co-existence,  in 
the  same  writer,  of  the  artist  and  the  savant  is  not 
so  rare  as  may  be  thought.     The  work  and  life  of 
Goethe  exhibit  the  two  forces  engaged  in  a  singu- 
larly interesting  conflict,  and  our   own  literature 
gives  us  at  this  very  moment  more  than  one  similar 
example.     The  misfortune  is  that  one  of  the  two 
tendencies  almost  always  ends  by  dominating  and 
stifling  the  other.    The  writer  leans  more  and  more 
to  the  side  to  which  his  inclination  tends.     Here  is 
an  historian  and  a  philologer,  devoted,  as  it  seemed, 
to  bare  learning,  who,  nevertheless,  breaks,  when  no 
one  expects  it,  the  bonds  of  his  business  and  his 
a2:)pointed  task,  and   lets  us  hear  the  marvellous 
accents  of  fantasy  which  were  thought  to  be  dead 
within  liim.     There  is  another  who,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  early  gained  the  public  ear  by  the  bold- 
ness of  his  paradoxes   and  the  vigor  of  his  style, 


DANIEL   DERONDA  69 

but  in  whom  a  taste  for  formulas  has  little  by  little 
destroyed  all  attraction  of  form.^  Such  is  also,  I 
fear,  the  explanation  of  "Daniel  Deronda."  The 
author's  taste  for  ideas  carries  her  into  theorizing  ; 
her  attention  to  morality  turns  into  purposed  didac- 
ticism ;  she  introduces  political  and  social  views! 
into  her  novels  without  restraint,  and,  finally,  the 
desire  of  exactitude  in  her  mind  produces  in  her 
style  an  intensity  of  expression  which  passes  into 
obscurity.  And  all  this  turns  to  the  great  injury 
of  her  art.  For  art  lives  not  by  ideas,  but  by  sen- 
timents, I  had  almost  said  by  sensations  :  it  is 
instinctive,  it  is  naïf,  and  it  is  by  direct  and  uncon- 
sidered expression  that  it  communicates  with  real- 
ity. Among  all  the  contradictions  of  which  life  is 
made  up,  there  is  none  more  constant  than  this  — • 
that  there  is  no  great  art  without  philosophy,  and 
that  yet  there  is  no  more  dangerous  enemy  of  art 
than  reflection. 
January  1877. 

1  [I  think,  but  am  not  certain,  that  M.  Scherer  is  here  refer- 
ring to  MM.  Renan  and  Taine.  —  Trans.'] 


TAINE'S  HISTORY    OF   ENGLISH   LITERATURE  i 

This  is  a  book  the  like  of  which  is  not  often  seen 
nowadays  :  a  book  boldly  conceived,  slowly  ripened, 
patiently  worked  out  —  a  mighty  work  in  which 
there  are  to  be  at  once  recognized  the  thought 
w^hich  dominates  facts,  the  inspiration  which  ani- 
mates style,  the  will  which  accomplishes  great 
undertakings.  I  could  not  feel  that  I  had  set  my- 
self right  with  M.  Taine  if,  before  all  discussion,  I 
did  not  pay  homage  at  once  to  the  value  of  his  work 
and  to  the  power  of  his  talent.  No  doubt  M.  Taine 
is  of  those  writers  who  provoke  one  to  contradict 
them  ;  but  no  contradiction  will  hinder  the  "  His- 
tory of  English  Literature  "  from  being,  when  all 
is  said,  one  of  the  most  considerable  books  which 
have  appeared  for  the  last  ten  years. 

Moreover,  there  are  in  this  book  two  things  very 
distinct  from  each  other.  There  is  not  only  a  his- 
tory, but  also,  and  first  of  all,  a  certain  fashion  of 
looking  at  history  :  the  author  has  brought  to  the 
study  of  his  subject  a  mind  positively  made  up  on 
matters  of  system.  It  is  lucky  that  he  has  also 
brought  to  it  conscientious  erudition  and  a  feeling 

i  Paris  :  Hachette.    3  vols.  8vo.    1863. 
70 


TAI^'E's  HISTOKY  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE        71 

for  literary  beauty.  The  result  is  that,  if  his  sys- 
tem and  his  story  have  not  fully  succeeded  in  per- 
meating each  other,  the  reader  ^^vill  at  worst  still 
find  in  M.  Taine  a  series  of  critical  studies  in  a 
very  great  st^de. 

As  for  his  views  on  the  nature  of  the  historian's 
task,  M.  Tame,  after  setting  them  forth  often  before, 
has  reproduced  them  now  in  his  introduction  with 
a  precision  which  makes  it  easy  to  master  them 
thoroughly,  and  to  make  a  definite  estimate  of  their 
value.  Behind  the  actions  of  a  man  there  is  the 
man  ;  and  behind  the  visible  man  who  acts,  there 
is  the  inner  man  who  thinks  and  wills.  By  going 
back,  then,  from  facts  to  causes,  we  arrive  promptly 
at  the  human  soul.  For  what  is  man  in  reality  ? 
A  living  being  in  whose  mind  there  is  produced  a 
representation  of  things.  This  representation  works 
itself  out  and  becomes  an  idea,  or  determines  the 
will  and  becomes  a  resolve.  Let  us  add  that  this 
transforming  of  sensation  is  carried  out  in  manners 
more  or  less  clear,  vivid,  and  simple,  from  which 
difference  arise  all  the  other  differences  between 
men.  But  on  what  does  this  first  difference  itself 
depend  ?  On  a  general  disposition,  on  an  initial 
moral  state  which  may  be  referred  to  the  action  of 
three  causes  :  the  race  —  that  is  to  say,  the  heredi- 
tary temperament,  which  varies  in  different  peoples  ; 
the  circumstances  —  for  instance,  climate,  social 
conditions,  political  surroundings  ;  and,  lastly,  the 
point  which  the  development,  the  progress  of  which 


72  ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH    LITEIIATURE 

is  under  study,  has  reached.  These  ultimate  causes, 
these  forces  being  once  recognized,  there  is  nothing 
left  before  us  but  a  question  of  mechanics.  No 
doubt  the  directions  which  are  taken  and  the  values 
which  are  reached  cannot  be  stated  as  rigidly  as  in 
the  exact  sciences,  and  consequently  the  system  of 
notation  will  not  be  the  same.  But  we  have  still 
in  our  hands,  none  the  less,  the  explanation  of  the 
characteristics  wliich  separate  one  civilization  from 
another.  And  when  we  use  the  word  civilization, 
we  mean  religion,  philosophy,  institutions,  arts  : 
everything  that  goes  to  make  up  social  life.  The 
whole  of  it  is  the  result  of  a  moral  state  which  it  is 
our  business  to  discover  and  formally  to  describe. 
Now  that  is  the  task  of  history.  History  seeks 
out  the  laws  wliich  govern  the  life  of  societies,  and 
all  the  manifestations  of  that  life.  "History  at 
bottom  is  a  pyschological  problem."  It  will  be  un- 
derstood from  this  what  literary  history  will  be  like. 
A  literature  is  one  of  the  documents  which  put 
before  our  eyes  the  sentiments  of  preceding  genera- 
tions. It  is  the  outward  sign  of  a  mental  stage,  the 
manifestation  of  the  inner  and  hidden  world,  which 
is  the  proper  subject  of  the  historian.  To  write 
history  is  to  work  from  facts  up  to  their  psycholog- 
ical causes  ;  but,  as  the  study  of  a  literature  is  the 
best  means  of  discovering  these  causes,  literary 
history  will  become  the  principal  instrument  of 
history  proper;  or,  still  better,  it  will  be  history 
par  excellence,  the  real  history. 


TAINE's  history  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       73 

This  argument  appears  to  me  faulty  in  two 
points  :  it  a,dulterates  the  notion  of  history,  and  it 
does  not  completely  answer  to  literary  history  as 
M.  Taine  himself  has  written  it.  For  history  in 
the  sense  which  the  word  at  once  suggests  to  the 
mind,  and  such  as  it  has  been  at  all  times  conceived 
to  be,  is  first  of  all  a  narrative.  Its  purpose  is  to 
make  the  actions  of  men  known  to  inquirers  into 
the  causes  of  these  actions,  because  that  is  a  means 
of  producing  a  better  understanding  of  them.  But 
its  researches  are  limited  to  those  causes  which  are 
matter  of  documentary  evidence.  There  History 
stops.  We  cannot  see  in  virtue  of  what  principle 
she  can  be  asked  to  go  back  to  the  ultimate  causes 
of  events,  to  consider  facts  in  the  light  of  a  problem 
proposed  for  solution,  to  refer  them  to  psj^cholog- 
ical  or  mechanical  considerations.  Besides,  what 
is  to  become  of  the  story  in  the  midst  of  these 
researches,  and  what  have  science  and  literature  to 
gain  by  such  a  confusion  of  kinds  ?  The  studies 
which  i\L  Taine  sketches  out  for  us  belong  not  to 
history  but  to  philosophy.  They  even  constitute  a 
social  department  of  this  latter  called  the  philoso- 
phy of  history — a  useful,  I  will  say  an  important, 
science,  and  one  which  men  like  Montesquieu,  like 
Herder,  like  Guizot,  like  Buckle,  have  made  illustri- 
ous ;  but  which  cannot  be  confounded  with  the  art 
of  the  great  historical  narrators  without  doing  vio- 
lence alike  to  the  interests  of  philosophy  and  of 
letters. 


74  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITER  AT  UKE 

What  I  have  said  of  history  in  general  is  equally 
true  of  literary  history  in  particular.  Former  stu- 
dents of  this  subject  had  subordinated  general  con- 
siderations to  the  special  study  of  authors  ;  and  if 
at  any  time  they  thought  tit  to  draw  from  the  state 
of  letters  in  a  country  conclusions  relating  to  the 
political  or  social  condition  of  that  country,  it  was, 
so  to  speak,  but  a  work  of  supererogation.  With 
M.  Taine  it  is  quite  the  contrary  ;  what  was  secon- 
dary has  become  principal  with  him.  His  book  is 
in  essence  a  history  of  the  English  race  and  of  civil- 
ization in  England.  ïlio  writer  habitually  starts 
from  the  moral  fact,  from  primary  aptitudes,  from 
instinctive  dispositions.  He  shows  us  conquerors 
and  conquered,  blending  and  forming  a  new  nation- 
ality, richer  and  more  complex  than  the  old.  Then 
he  puts  us  in  presence  of  the  great  events,  such 
as  the  Eenaissance  and  the  Eeformation,  wdiich 
affected  England  as  they  affected  Europe.  This  is 
the  thread  of  the  stor}^,  the  substance  of  the  book. 
The  works  of  his  authors,  whether  they  be  famous 
or  obscure,  whether  they  be  forgotten  fabliaux  or 
immortal  masterpieces,  are  merely  evidence  used 
to  support  theories  of  the  writer.  Their  literary 
worth  is  far  less  in  question  than  the  light  that 
they  can  throw  on  the  manners  of  an  epoch.  They 
are  treated,  not  as  products  of  the  art  of  writing, 
but  as  historical  documents.  There  is  in  this  some- 
thing very  novel  and  very  instructive  :  but,  it  must 
also  be  clear,  there  is  a  way  of  looking  at  literary 


TAINE's  HISTOEY  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       75 

history  which,  is  utterly  unlike  what  has  hitherto 
been  understood  by  it. 

A  "question  of  title"  it  maybe  said  —  "perhaps 
the  mere  demand  of  a  publisher!"  Besides,  has 
not  M.  Taine  clearly  declared  his  purpose  ?  Has 
he  not  said  that  he  undertakes  an  inquiry  into  the 
pyschology  of  a  people  by  means  of  the  history  of 
its  literature  ?  Has  he  not  succeeded  in  this  ?  and 
if  he  has  succeeded,  why  quibble  with  him  about 
the  precise  use  of  a  word,  or  the  possibility  of  a 
misunderstanding  ? 

I  should  be  the  first  to  yield  to  these  arguments 
if  it  were  a  mere  question  of  title.  But  there  is 
something  more  at  stake  here  :  there  is  the  confu- 
sion of  two  methods. 

For  M.  Taine,  in  fact,  has  not  been  so  faithful  to 
his  first  idea  as  not  frequently  to  have  slipped  into 
literary  history  in  the  common  sense  of  the  term. 
In  vain  is  his  head  full  of  peoples  and  races.  He 
is  alive  also  to  the  greatness  of  individuals.  His 
strong  and  lively  imagination  is  not  less  struck  by 
the  physiognomy  of  a  writer  than  by  that  of  an 
epoch,  and  he  loves  to  render  the  one  as  well  as 
the  other.  He  excels  at  sketching  a  character,  at 
defining  a  talent.  He  delights  in  laying  hold  of  a 
mighty  or  strange  personality  —  a  Shakespeare,  a 
Milton,  a  Byron  —  in  magnifying  it  as  though  to 
ascertain  its  nature  better,  in  observing  it  in  the 
isolation  which  comes  of  genius,  in  discovering  its 
strength  and  its  weakness,  in  seeking  for  the  secret 


76  ESSAYS   OX  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

tie  wliicli  unites  its  different  parts.  At  such  times 
he  hits  upon  phrases,  vividly  picturesque  or  sculpt- 
ural, to  express  the  i)eculiar  nature  of  each  mind 
and  of  each  work.  Now  all  this  biograi)hical  and 
critical  part  of  the  work  is  at  bottom  but  a  liors 
cV œuvre;  it  does  not  enter  into  the  primary  plan, 
it  cannot  be  referred  to  the  idée  mère.  The  indi- 
vidual, considered  in  his  proper  genius  —  that  is  to 
say,  strictly  as  an  individual  —  has  ^no  place  in  a 
hook  which  aims  at  being  a  philosophy  of  history. 
One  of  two  things  must  be  true.  Either  the  race 
explains  all,  even  individual  character  (and  in  that 
case  the  product  of  general  causes  in  these  charac- 
ters ought  to  have  been  pointed  out),  or  else  a  man's 
genius  is  a  fact  which  we  are  powerless  to  explain, 
which  we  must  accept  without  attempting  to  deter- 
mine its  laws  (and  in  that  case  it  is  proper  to  neg- 
lect it  in  a  treatise  w^hich  underneath  works  of 
literature  proposes  solely  "  to  seek  the  physiology 
of  a  people  ").  Besides,  it  must  not  be  thought  that 
when  M.  Taine  betakes  himself  to  the  study  of  the 
individual  he  gives  up  his  fixed  ideas  of  system. 
He  makes  a  change  in  them,  that  is  all.  He  Las  at 
one  moment  been  l)usy  in  identifying  the  instincts 
of  a  race  in  the  general  characters  of  a  literature. 
He  will  at  the  next  try  to  discover,  in  the  genius  of 
a  man,  the  dominant  feature  whence  he  thinks  he 
can  deduce  the  others. 

It  is  well  known  with  what  resourceful  paradox 
M.  Taine  once  upheld  a  similar  thesis  on  the  sub- 


TAINE'S  HISTOKir  OF  ENGLISH  LITEEATURE       T7 

ject  of  Livy.  Sow,  the  leaders  of  English  litera- 
ture are  subjected  to  the  same  process.  Is  the 
subject  Shakespeare?  ''Let  us  seek  the  man," 
says  our  author,  '•  and  let  us  seek  him  in  his  style. 
The  style  explains  the  work,  and  by  showing  the 
chief  features  of  the  genius,  it  announces  the 
others.  When  you  have  once  seized  the  master 
faculty,  you  can  see  the  whole  artist  developing 
himself  like  a  Hower."  A  little  further  on  it  is 
Milton's  turn.  ''  His  emotions  and  his  reasonings, 
all  the  forces  and  all  the  actions  of  his  soul,  draw 
together  and  array  themselves  under  one  single 
sentiment,  that  of  the  sublime  ;  and  the  mighty 
flood  of  lyric  poesy  runs  from  him,  impetuous,  un- 
broken, in  splendor  like  a  sheet  of  gold."  Obvi- 
ously this  process  has  nothing  to  do  with  that  of 
which  I  was  speaking  above.  The  one  consists  in 
working  back  from  the  poetical  creations  of  a 
people  to  the  natural  dispositions  characterizing 
that  people  ;  the  other  consists,  on  the  contrary, 
in  a  logical  deduction  of  the  qualities  of  a  writer 
from  his  predominant  aptitude.  To  speak  frankly, 
these  are  two  methods  opposed  to  each  other,  con- 
nected only  by  the  author's  fancy  for  abstract 
reasoning,  and  possessing  the  special  fault  of  being 
heaped  on  one  another  here  without  interdepend- 
ence and  without  mutual  subordination. 

Let  me  be  understood.  I  do  not  reproach  i\L 
Taine  with  the  scientific  airs  which  his  thought 
gives  herself.     He  was  entitled  to  give  us  a  phil- 


78  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

osophic  treatise,  even  if  we  might  perhaps  have  pre- 
ferred a  book  with  its  edification  better  disguised, 
with  its  solidity  more  adapted  to  the  task  of  pleas- 
ing. Nevertheless,  and  even  if  we  place  ourselves  at 
his  own  point  of  view,  we  may  think  that  he  might 
have  done  more  to  win  his  readers'  confidence.  He 
betrays  his  fixed  ideas  of  system  too  naïvely  and  too 
uniformly.  Instead  of  consulting  the  writings  of 
a  period  so  as  to  gather  from  them  the  strokes 
with  which  he  is  to  draw  the  picture  of  the  epoch, 
he  begins  by  explanations,  narratives,  descriptions, 
so  that  when  literary  history  at  last  comes  up,  it 
is  only  to  supply  examples  in  support  of  the 
theory.  The  effect  is  that  facts  seem  to  bend  to 
what  is  asked  of  them  ;  that  the  author  is  (even 
against  one's  will)  suspected  now  of  having  in- 
vented the  general  rule  to  explain  the  particular 
phenomenon,  now  of  having  twisted  historic  fact 
to  suit  the  exigencies  of  general  views.  Let  us 
not  mistake.  The  human  mind  and  fact  are  two 
matters  which  have  a  necessary  tendency  to  draw 
together,  but  which  never  entirely  coincide.  Ideality 
always  exceeds  our  conceptions,  and  we  cannot  shut 
it  up  in  our  private  formulas  except  by  mutilating  it. 
Hence  comes  a  kind  of  dissembled  war,  which  history 
and  philosophy  have  in  all  times  waged  against 
each  other  —  the  war  between  the  man  who  tries 
to  adjust  facts  to  laws,  and  the  man  who,  on  the 
other  hand,  busies  himself  with  following  men  and 
things  across  the  eternal  surprises  of  chance.     M. 


TAINE'S  history  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       79 

Taine  has  set  himself  to  be  at  once  philosopher 
and  historian  ;  he  has  shown  in  his  work  qualities 
which  are  very  rarely  found  in  union.  But  he  has 
not  succeeded  in  disguising  that  feature  of  his 
undertaking  which  was  necessarily  doubtful,  some 
would  say  radically  impossible.  Xay,  his  methods 
do  not  only  excite  doubt,  they  sometimes  proceed 
to  open  violence.  Here  are  two  sufficiently  amus- 
ing examples. 

England  in  the  ethnological  theories  of  our  au- 
thor is  essentially  "the  moist  country."  There 
earth  and  air  are  saturated  with  water,  which 
explains  everything;  yes,  everything,  even  to  "the 
enormous  whiskers  "'  of  the  men  ;  evervthino-,  even 
to  their  "huge  feet  like  those  of  wading  birds, 
solidly  booted,  admirable  for  walking  in  mud."  It 
will  be  admitted  that  this  picture  of  an  English- 
man obliged  to  cross  marshes,  and  acquiring  the 
feet  of  web  in  the  process,  pushes  the  doctrine  of 
the  influence  of  milieux  a  little  far. 

A  few  pages  later  the  author  brings  out  in  ener- 
getic outline  the  combined  habits  of  independence 
and  order  which  distinguish  the  English  people. 
Unluckily,  when  he  is  once  "off,"  M.  Taine  lets  him- 
self go,  and  ends  by  throwing  more  than  one  doubt- 
ful touch  into  the  picture.  Thus  he  attributes 
to  paternal  authority  in  England  "'a  degree  of 
authority  and  of  dignity  which  is  unknown  to  us." 
He  should  have  said  exactly  the  contrary;  paternal 
authority  is  with  us  much  severer  and  much  more 


80  ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

jealous  ;  but  even  this  is  uot  all.  Among  the  evi- 
dence which  M.  Taine  brings  in  support  of  his 
assertions,  there  is  one  item  which  cannot  be  read 
Avithout  a  smile.  "  The  father,"  he  says,  is  called 
''the  governor."  Now  this  so-called  title  of 
authority  is,  on  the  contrary,  a  piece  of  familiar 
slang,  a  nickname  which,  without  being  exactly 
disrespectful,  is  not  easy  to  reconcile  with  our 
notions  of  filial  respect.^ 

I  am  not  certain  whether  I  have  made  the  objec- 
tions which  the  idea  and  the  method  of  M.  Taine 
raise  in  my  mind  entirely  clear.  They  may  be  all 
summed  up  thus.  The  author  wished  to  set  before 
us  the  formation  and  the  transformations  of  the 
English  national  spirit.  He  sought  out  the  expres- 
sions of  this  spirit,  the  documents  of  tliis  history,  in 
the  literature  of  the  people  to  whom  he  wished  to 
introduce  us.  On  the  other  hand,  such  a  literature 
cannot  be  reduced  altogether  to  the  rather  secon- 
dary part  of  witness  in  support  of  a  thesis,  of  testi- 
mony in  favor  of  an  ethnological  law.  A  literature 
has  a  life  proper  to  itself  :  it  moves  independently, 
it  obeys  special  influences.  It  furnishes,  I  admit, 
important  data  to  history  :  but  that  cannot  prevent 
it  from  being  a  literature  first  of  all  :  that  is  to  sa}^ 
art,  the  expression  of  the  sense  of  beauty.  That  is 
its  essence  :  all  the  rest  is,  so  to  speak,  but  acci- 

1  M.  Taiue,  in  his  Notes  siir  V Angleterre  (p.  120),  insists  on 
trying  to  find  a  social  meaning  in  this  familiar  expression,  and 
deducing  serious  conclusions  from  it. 


TAINE^S  HISTORY  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       81 

dental  and  indirect.  Xow  ]\I.  Taine  has  felt  this. 
He  has  been  unable  to  remain  so  faithful  to  his  first 
ideas  as  to  study  English  literature  solely  as  the 
monument  of  a  civilization.  He  has  undergone  the 
charm  of  those  mighty  geniuses  in  whom  he  would 
at  first  have  seen  nothing  but  mere  samples  of  a 
race  ;  he  has  allowed  himself  to  consider  them  as 
writers  and  as  j^oets,  to  question  them  on  the  secret 
of  their  conceptions,  to  describe  their  methods,  to 
characterize  their  style.  In  short,  he  has  fre- 
quently slipped  in  his  own  despite  into  literary 
history,  such  as  it  is  commonly  understood  and  writ- 
ten. And  this  creates  two  works  within  his  work, 
two  plans  which  mutually  cross  and  entangle,  two 
methods  which  by  no  means  combine,  but  on  the 
contrary  oppose  each  other.  Obviously  this  is  no 
mere  question  of  title.  ]\r.  ïaine,  despite  the 
vigor  with  which  he  has  realized  the  master- 
thought  of  his  work,  has  not  arrived  at  an  entire 
unity  of  execution.  There  is  something  too  much 
in  him  and  something  too  little.  Had  he  been 
nothing  if  not  philosophical,  w^e  should  not  have 
thought  of  demanding  from  him  a  complete  view  of 
the  history  of  letters  in  England  :  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  when  he  permits  himself  so  many  ex- 
cursions into  the  field  of  pure  art,  we  feel  obliged 
to  reproach  him  with  omissions. 

Shakespeare  is  a  product  of  the  Eenaissance  ; 
Milton  a  representation  of  Puritanism  ;  the  comic 
authors  of  Charles  II. 's  time  the  expression  of  a 


82  ESSAYS   ON    ENGLISH   LITEKATUKE 

licentious  reaction  against  absurd  austerities.  All 
this  is  solidly  deduced  and  set  in  strong  relief.  Yet 
it  was  inevitable  that  M.  Taine,  in  thus  treating  his 
subject,  should  mix  with  it  a  crowd  of  views  and 
appreciations  which  run  outside  his  first  intention  ; 
and  so  in  these  pages  one  often  loses  sight  of  that 
which  was  our  starting  point.  We  catch  ourselves 
forgetting  that  what  we  had  to  discover  was  a  coun- 
try and  an  epoch  under  the  features  of  individual 
genius.  Then,  our  taste  once  whetted  for  literary 
discussion,  we  begin  to  ask  M.  Taine  for  notice  of 
many  things  which  he  has  not  told  us,  of  which  his 
plan  did  not  oblige  him  to  tell  us,  but  which  we 
should  have  liked  to  find  in  these  volumes,  if  only  as 
a  kind  of  half  concession  and  kindly  inconsistency. 
We  are  surprised,  unreasonably  I  grant,  but  still 
we  are  surprised,  not  to  be  put  in  the  wa}^  of  trac- 
ing certain  great  schools  and  profound  influences. 
We  do  not  learn  what  has  been  the  action  of  the 
chief  English  writers  on  that  English  literature 
which,  however,  forms  after  all  the  substance  and 
canvas  of  the  book.  And  what  is  the  result  when 
M.  Taine  finds  himself  in  presence  of  an  author 
who  has  no  very  marked  enthnological  signification 
—  of  Johnson,  for  instance  ?  Johnson  is  an  original 
figure  :  he  published  numerous  works  :  he  founded  a 
school  :  his  style  —  half-forcible,  half-pedantic  — 
long  set  the  fashion.  It  is  true  that  Johnson  rep- 
resents nothing,  is  the  formula  of  nothing  :  and  so 
M.  Taine  gives  not  two  pages  to  his  writings,  and 


TAINE'S  history  of  ENGLISH  LITEIIATUKE       83 

not  a  word  to  the  traces  he  has  left.  He  is  less 
generous  still  to  Young  and  to  Macpherson,  to 
Hume,  to  Gibbon,  to  Eobertson.  Poetic  influence, 
philosophical  action  itself,  innovations  in  thought  or 
style,  all  the  capital  facts  of  literary  history,  our 
author  neglects  them  when  he  does  not  find  in 
them  the  expression  of  a  moral  state  of  society. 

We  might  indeed  excuse  mere  gaps  ;  but  the  sys- 
tem itself,  as  ^L  Taine  applies  it,  sometimes  runs 
the  risk  of  falsifying  historic  fact.  I  need  no  fur- 
ther proof  of  this  than  his  picture  of  modern  poetry 
in  England.  At  the  end  of  the  last  century  appears 
the  English  Eomantic  school,  "wholly  similar  to 
ours  by  its  doctrines,  its  origins,  and  its  relation  ; 
by  the  truths  it  discovered,  the  exaggerations  it 
committed,  the  scandal  it  aroused."  From  this 
school  issue  two  kinds  of  poetry  :  historical  poetry, 
illustrated  by  Lamb,  Campbell,  Coleridge,  Thomas 
iMoore,  Southey,  and  Walter  Scott  ;  and  philosoph- 
ical poetry,  to  which  belong  the  works  of  Words- 
worth, of  Shelley,  and  of  Byron.  Here  assuredly 
we  have  great  names.  Walter  Scott,  not  to  mention 
others,  occupied  a  considerable  place  in  the  litera- 
ture of  his  country  and  his  time  ;  but  Walter  Scott 
is  a  man  of  letters  pure  and  simple,  and  will  not 
long  occu])j  M.  Taine.  Indeed  fifty  pages  will  suf- 
fice for  all  this  great  period  of  modern  poetry  in 
England.  The  author  is  in  a  hurrv  :  he  has  found 
his  "  man-formula,"'  he  strews  all  the  other  reputa- 
tions before  his  feet.     One  writer  only  counts  in 


84  ESSAYS    ON"   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

his  e^-es,  and  that  is  Byron.  Why  Byron?  Be- 
cause Byron  personifies  something.  "If  Goethe 
was  the  poet  of  the  universe,  Byron  was  the  poet 
of  personality  :  and  if  the  German  spirit  has  found 
its  interpreter  in  the  one,  the  English  spirit  has 
found  its  interpreter  in  the  other." 

One  thing  is  certain  :  the  English  spirit  has  not 
been  at  all  ready  to  acknowledge  its  interpreter. 
But,  setting  this  observation  aside,  how  thoroughly 
does  such  a  manner  of  writing  history  disguise  the 
meaning  and  the  march  of  facts  !  I  do  not  think  it 
is  at  all  exact  to  speak  of  a  "  Eomantic  "  school  in 
England.  The  English  have  had  neither  the  word 
nor  the  thing,  neither  the  discussions  which  the 
term  recalls  nor  the  innovations  which  hold  so 
great  a  place  in  the  French  and  German  literature 
of  this  century.  Besides,  what  connection  can  be 
established  in  this  respect  between  the  two  coun- 
tries separated  by  the  Channel  ?  English  literature 
started  by  independence,  and  it  is  in  independence 
that  we  have  ended.  Innovation  in  France  has 
inclined  most  of  all  to  the  theatrical  side,  while 
modern  English  has  made  its  principal  effort  in 
narrative  poems.  And,  to  come  to  particular  names, 
who  are  to  be  the  Lamartines,  the  Hugos,  the  Mus- 
sets  of  our  neighbors  ?  Who  are  to  be  our  Scotts 
and  our  Byrons,  our  Shelleys  and  our  Words- 
worths  ?  I  have  said  that  M.  Taine  divides  the 
recent  poets  of  England  into  two  classes — philoso- 
phers and  historians.     The  division  is  more  con- 


TAINE's  history  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       85 

veDient  than  accurate.  A  little  arbitrary  in  itself, 
it  becomes  still  more  so  when  all  writers  are  forced 
to  enter  one  or  other  category.  Is  it  "  Gertrude  " 
to  which  Campbell  owes  the  privilege  of  figuring 
among  historians  ?  Is  it  giving  a  very  exact  or  a 
very  full  idea  of  Thomas  Moore,  of  that  light  and 
elegant  muse,  of  that  inspiration  at  once  sensual, 
sentimental,  and  satirical,  to  make  of  him  a  traveller 
or  an  antiquary  masquerading  as  a  poet  ?  And 
Coleridge  ?  I  have  found  it  impossible  even  to 
guess  what  procured  him  the  honor  of  being  labelled 
historian.  However  all  this  is  nothing  beside  the 
verdict  passed  a  little  later  on  Carlyle.  Carlyle 
classed  among  the  Puritans,  "  the  real  Puritans," 
by  the  side  of  Pascal  and  Cowper  !  Shade  of 
Teufelsdroeckh  !  I  think  I  see  a  very  curious  smile 
flitting  over  your  cynical  lips. 

But,  after  all,  these  are  only  details.  I  attach 
far  more  importance  to  the  idea  which  the  author 
has  formed  of  the  development  of  modern  poetry 
in  England,  to  the  manner  in  which  he  describes 
this  mighty  evolution  of  the  national  genius.  M. 
ïaine,  I  have  said,  passes  rapidly  over  other  names 
to  get  to  Byron.  Byron  in  his  eyes  is  the  last  word 
of  English  literature  :  his  contemporaries  are  but 
at  most  the  cli  minores  who  follow  in  his  train. 
Now,  has  he  not,  in  setting  things  forth  after  this 
fashion,  put  his  own  literary  predilections  in  the 
place  of  facts  ?  Has  he  not  rather  interpreted 
history  than  told  it  ? 


80  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LIT  EU  AT  URE 

Por  the  moment  the  merits  of  Byron  are  not 
in  question.  We  shall  return  to  them  presently. 
AVhat  we  are  looking  for  is  the  succession  of  ideas 
and  the  linking  together  of  influences.  Now,  it  is 
an  established  fact  that  the  action  of  Byron  on  his 
contemporaries  Avas  lively,  but  not  durable  —  in- 
deed, it  hardly  outlasted  his  own  life.  "Don  Juan" 
—  his  last  work  —  never  has  had  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Channel  the  kind  of  symbolical  importance 
which  it  pleases  us  to  attribute  to  it.  Besides,  men 
were  quick  to  be  disgusted  with  the  misanthropic 
dandyism,  the  airs  of  a  blasé  aristocrat,  which  the 
author  of  "  Childe  Harold  "  was  never  tired  of 
ostentatiously  affecting.  The  English  genius  is 
much  more  active,  and  as  a  consequence  much  more 
supple,  than  we  suppose  it  to  be.  It  passes  rapidly 
from  one  hobby  to  another,  and  unceasingly  seeks 
to  find  its  way  through  contrasts.  And  so  Byron, 
hailed  in  his  day  as  the  personification  of  the  noblest 
melancholy,  ended  by  seeming  artificial  and  shal- 
low. Tired  of  grand — and  false  —  sentiments,  men 
turned  with  delight  to  a  writer  whose  simplicity 
was  not  free  from  study,  but  whose  very  study  had 
often  enabled  him  to  reach  profound  thoughts  and 
a  delicate  interpretation  of  nature.  Wordsworth 
was  in  his  turn  proclaimed  the  greatest  poet  of  the 
time.  And  then,  in  his  turn,  he  again  was  found 
wanting.  Coleridge  —  a  logical  enthusiast  who 
united  speculative  views  to  mystical  intuitions,  a 
poet  and  a  theologian  —  had  given  his  fellow-coun- 


TAINE's  history  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       87 

trymen  many  new  lights  from  the  German  side. 
The  wind  of  philosophical  systems  had  made  its 
breath  felt.  Emotion  was  found  insufficient  ;  ideas 
were  called  for.  And  so  Shelley,  poor  Shelley  !  so 
disdained  and  cried  down  in  his  lifetime,  succeeded 
Wordsworth  in  vogue.  The  amende  honorable  was 
made  to  him  :  he  was  proclaimed  one  of  the  glories 
of  England.  Men  became  passionately  enamoured 
of  his  ethereal,  subtle,  intangible  poetry,  and  the 
hollowness  of  his  humanitarian  dreams  was  for- 
given him  in  virtue  of  the  sublimity  and  beauty  of 
his  imagination.  After  which  he  shared  the  fate 
of  his  predecessors.  As  time  went  on  his  defects 
became  more  apparent.  There  was  not  enough 
human  heart-beat,  not  enough  life,  not  enough  of 
the  dramatic  within  him.  There  came  a  new  poet 
who,  to  the  science  of  rhythm,  the  resources  of 
expression,  the  gift  of  epic  narration,  the  deep  feel- 
ing for  nature,  to  all  the  caprices  of  a  delightful 
fancy,  to  all  the  favorite  ideas,  noble  or  morbid,  of 
modern  thought,  knew  how  to  join  the  language 
of  manly  passion.  Thus,  as  it  were  summing  up  in 
himself  all  his  forerunners,  he  touched  all  hearts  ; 
he  linked  together  all  admirations;  he  has  remained 
the  true  representative,  the  last  expression  and 
final,  of  the  poetic  period  to  which  he  belongs. 
Tennyson  reigns  to-day  almost  alone  in  increasing 
and  uncontested  glory.^    Such,  at  least,  is  the  move- 

1  The  evolution  of  taste  and  of  thouglit  has  continued  since 
these  lines  were  written,  and  the  supremacy  of  Tennyson  has 
received  (1875)  more  than  one  attack. 


88  ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH   LLTKllATUllE 

ment  of  modern  poetry  in  England  as  I  understand 
it.  As  for  M.  Taine,  he  finds  nothing  in  Words- 
worth but  limitless  boredom,  and  nothing  in  Tenny- 
son but  an  amiable  dilettantism.  It  will  be  seen 
that  an  understanding  between  us  is  not  immedi- 
atel}^  likely. 

But,  if  M.  Taine's  systematic  views  sometimes 
lead  him  to  misjudge  the  interconnection  of  literary 
facts,  they  also  lead  him  at  times  to  exaggeration 
and  caricature.  He  must  needs,  to  make  his  his- 
torical deductions  effective,  hit  upon  individual 
characters  which  represent  an  age.  And  tlien  he 
permits  himself  to  endow  his  figures  in  a  very  curi- 
ous fashion  with  heroic  attitudes,  with  gigantic 
stature,  with  mystical  undermeaning.  So  he  did 
long  ago  with  Dickens,  with  Thackeray,  with  Carlyle  ; 
but  I  know  no  more  notable  example  of  this  kind 
of  hallucination  than  the  chapter  in  this  book 
which  treats  of  Lord  Byron. 

Byron  is  one  of  our  French  superstitions.  Thanks 
to  distance  and  to  the  obstacles  which  translation 
sets  in  the  way  of  familiar  knowledge,  we  are  still, 
on  this  head,  in  the  fashion  of  1820.  We  insist 
upon  taking  the  noble  poet  seriously.  His  name 
excites  in  us  an  idea  of  luxury  on  the  great  scale, 
of  brilliant  debauchery,  of  chivalrous  character,  the 
whole  mingled  with  immortal  poesy.  Byron  is  to 
us  a  Don  Juan  of  genius,  a  splendid  and  mysterious 
Lara,  or,  as  M.  de  Lamartine  sang  of  old,  something 
between  an  archangel  and  a  demon. 


TAINE's  history  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE        89 

M.  Taine  conld  not  but  find  his  account  in  accept- 
ing the  popular  legend  ;  for  such  a  figure  must  put 
a  magnificent  crown  to  the  edifice  which  he  had 
just  been  constructing.  Here  was  the  English 
genius,  after  five  centuries  of  histor}^,  on  the  point 
of  finding  its  last  expression,  its  incomparable 
emblem.  Accordingly,  see  with  what  expense  of 
metaphors,  of  contrasts,  of  hyperboles  our  author 
tries  to  invest  his  hero  with  superhuman  signifi- 
cance. 

"  The  passion  of  the  moment,  be  it  great  or  small, 
swooped  down  on  his  soul  like  a  tempest,  aroused 
it,  excited  it  to  the  pitch  of  folly  or  to  the  pitch  of 
genius.  His  journal,  his  familiar  letters,  all  his 
unpremeditated  prose  writings,  quiver  as  it  were 
with  wit,  anger,  enthusiasm.  The  cry  of  feeling 
vibrates  in  the  very  least  words.  Since  Saint-vSimon 
nothing  has  been  so  vividly  confidential.  All  styles 
seem  dull  and  all  souls  seem  sluggish  beside  his." 
Further  on  we  have  a  picture  ''of  that  splendid 
impetuosity  of  faculties,  unbridled  and  let  loose, 
rushing  where  chance  may  lead  them,  and  seeming 
to  hurry  him  without  choice  on  his  part  to  the 
four  corners  of  the  horizon."  Again  :  Byron  ruined 
himself  by  despising  public  opinion;  but,  singularly 
enough,  this  contempt  of  opinion,  which  clearly 
could  have  done  him  no  harm  save  in  a  public 
which  was  slave  to  opinion,  this  very  disdain  of 
the  conventional,  is  one  of  the  characteristics  of 
the  English.     "This  instinct  of   revolt  is  in  the 


90  ESSAYS    OX    ENGLISH   LITEllATUKE 

race..  It  is  nourished  by  a  whole  bundle  of  savage 
passions  born  of  the  climate  —  a  gloomy  humor,  a 
violent  imagination,  an  indomitable  pride,  the  taste 
for  danger,  the  desire  of  battle,  the  thirst  for  excite- 
ment which  is  only  glutted  by  destruction,  and  the 
sombre  madness  which  used  to  urge  the  Scandi- 
navian Berserkers  when,  in  an  open  boat,  under  a 
sky  riven  by  lightning,  they  abandoned  themselves 
to  the  tempest  whose  fury  they  had  breathed." 

And  so  the  features  of  the  child  are  still  visible 
in  the  maturity  of  the  adult.  The  Englishman 
may  measure  cotton  as  he  pleases,  but  he  is  still 
the  descendant  of  the  ancient  sea-kings,  and  the 
finished  ideal  of  an  Englishman  will  be  neither 
more  nor  less  than  Byron.  '''Strange  and  thor- 
oughly northern  poetry,"  cries  M.  ïaine,  "with 
its  root  in  the  Edda  and  its  flower  in  Shakespeare, 
born  long  ago  under  an  inclement  sky,  beside  a 
stormy  sea,  wrought  by  a  race  only  too  self-willed, 
too  strong,  and  too  sombre — a  poetry  which,  after 
lavishing  images  of  desolation  and  of  heroism, 
ends  by  spreading  over  the  whole  life  of  nature, 
like  a  sable  veil,  the  vision  of  universal  destruc- 
tion." 

According  to  M.  Taiue,  the  poet  in  Byron  is  not 
less  great  than  the  man.  He  is  the  only  one  of 
his  contemporaries  who  has  "  reached  the  summit." 
Manfred  is  a  twin  brother  of  Faust.  As  for  his 
style,  none  has  ever  better  expressed  the  soul, 
"  its  labor,  its  expansion,  are  things  visible.     Ideas 


TAINE'S  history  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       91 

have  boiled  in  it  long  and  stormily,  like  tlie  lumps 
of  metal  piled  up  in  the  furnace.  They  have  melted 
under  the  stress  of  fervent  heat,  they  have  blended 
their  lava  with  quiverings  and  explosions,  and  now 
at  last  the  door  opens,  a  heavy  stream  of  fire  falls 
into  the  furrow  prepared  beforehand,  setting  the 
shivering  air  on  fire,  while  its  blazing  hues  scorch 
the  eyes  that  too  obstinately  gaze  at  it." 

Such  is  M.  Taine's  Byron.  Xo  phrase  seems  too 
strong  to  express  his  greatness,  no  image  too  vivid 
to  indicate  the  splendor  of  his  genius.  But  it 
remains  to  inquire  whether  the  portrait  is  as  exactly 
like  as  it  is  brilliantly  painted.  Tor  my  part,  I 
own  that  I  can  hardly  recognize  the  real  Byron  in 
it  at  all,  and  that  M.  Taine  seems  to  me  at  once 
to  have  magnified  the  man  and  overrated  the  poet. 

Byron,  doubtless,  is  no  ordinary  bard.  He 
possesses  fecundity,  eloquence,  wit.  Yet  these 
very  qualities  are  confined  within  pretty  narrow 
limits.  The  wit  of  "  Beppo  "  and  of  "  Don  Juan  " 
is  of  the  kind  that  consists  in  dissonance  ;  that  is 
to  say,  in  the  serio-comic,  in  an  apparent  gravity 
which  is  contradicted  every  moment  by  drollery  of 
phrase.  In  the  same  way  Byron's  fecundity  is 
more  apparent  than  real.  He  wrote  a  great  deal  — 
poems  serious  and  poems  comic,  epics  and  dramas, 
visions  and  satires  ;  but,  speaking  strictly,  he  never 
had  more  than  a  single  subject — himself.  Xo  man 
has  ever  pushed  egotism  farther  than  he.  Childe 
Harold,  Lara,  Don  Juan,  Manfred,  the  Deformed 


92  ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LLTERATUKE 

Transformed,  all  the  poet's  lieroes,  are  but  so 
many  copies  of  tlie  same  original.  Nor  is  it  only 
his  own  character  that  he  reproduces  continually. 
It  is  his  domestic  misfortunes,  his  mother  and  the 
education  she  gave  liim,  his  wife  and  the  faults 
which  he  thinks  himself  entitled  to  reproach  her 
with.  Now  there  is  in  this  obstinate  determina- 
tion to  acquaint  the  public  with  his  private  life, 
not  only  a  want  of  taste  and  dignity,  but  also  a 
singular  inability  to  rise  to  great  art,  to  art  which 
is  impersonal  and  disinterested. 

Yet  on  this  point,  on  the  poetical  genius  of  Byron, 
M.  Taine  has  glimpses  of  the  truth.  He  begins 
by  extolling  him  as  a  giant,  but  he  ends  by  reduc- 
ing him  to  the  proportions  of  an  ordinary  mortal. 
At  one  moment  he  is  a  volcano  vomiting  lava  ;  a 
little  further  we  shall  find  him  a  merely  logical 
and  spirited  orator.  We  shall  even  find  acknowl- 
edgments that  there  are  some  glass  beads  among 
the  Orient  jewelry,  some  opera  choruses  among 
his  sombre  poetry.  There  is  a  confession  that  it 
was  time  for  "Don  Juan  "  to  come  to  an  end,  inas- 
much as  it  was  beginning  to  be  a  bore.  The  truth 
is  that  Byron's  talent  is  less  poetical  than  oratorical  ; 
he  has  less  of  imagination  than  of  rhetoric.  He 
always  reminds  me  of  the  judgment  which  Schiller 
passed  on  Mme.  de  Staël  when  he  wrote  to  Goethe  : 
—  "  The  sense  of  poetry  as  we  understand  it  is 
utterly  absent  in  her  ;  she  can  only  assimilate  in 
works  of  this  kind  the  side  which  is  passionate, 


TAINE's  HISTOKY  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       93 

oratorical,  and  general."  Exactly  so.  It  is,  indeed, 
a  mistake  to  confound  eloquence  -udth.  poetry.  Elo- 
quence is  that  kind  of  discourse  wliicli  serves  as  an 
expression  for  personal  emotion;  poetry,  an  infi- 
nitely more  varied  and  less  interested  thing,  is  the 
making  manifest  by  means  of  language  of  that  ele- 
ment of  beauty  which  is  in  all  things  and  which  it 
is  its  business  to  feel  and  to  disengage.  We 
in  France  are  wont  to  distinguish  insufficiently 
between  the  two  arts.  We  find  it  hard  to  forget 
ourselves,  and  give  ourselves  up  to  the  proper 
power  of  the  object.  We  remain  the  slaves  of 
lyrical  declamation.  It  is  the  same  with  Byron, 
who  is  of  the  school  of  Pope,  who  himself  is  of 
our  school.  The  author  of  the  "  Corsair  "  was  not 
ignorant  of  the  fact  ;  he  makes  no  mystery  of  his 
tastes  ;  his  admiration  for  Pope  is  the  fundamental 
article  of  his  poetical  creed,  and  he  is  never  tired 
of  extolling,  as  the  final  effort  of  genius,  the  smooth 
and  balanced  verses  of  that  artificial  writer. 

The  man  in  Byron  is  of  a  nature  even  less  sin- 
cere than  that  of  the  poet.  Underneath  this  Bel- 
tenebros  there  is  hidden  a  coxcomb.  He  posed  all 
through  his  life.  He  had  every  affectation  —  the 
writer's,  the  roue's,  the  dandy's,  the  conspirator's. 
He  was  constantly  writing,  and  he  pretends  to  de- 
spise his  writings.  To  believe  himself,  he  was  proud 
of  nothing  but  his  skill  in  bodily  exercises.  An 
Englishman,  he  affects  Bonapartism  ;  a  peer  of  the 
realm,  he  speaks  of  the  Universal  Eepublic  with 


94  ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

the  enthusiasm  of  a  schoolboy  of  fifteen.  He  plays 
at  misanthropy,  at  disillusion  :  he  parades  his  vices  ; 
he  even  tries  to  make  us  believe  that  he  has  com- 
mitted a  crime  or  two.  Head  his  letters  —  his  let- 
ers  written  nominally  to  friends,  but  handed  about 
from  hand  to  hand  in  London.  Read  his  journal  — 
a  journal  kept  ostensibly  for  himself,  but  handed 
over  afterwards  by  him  to  Moore  with  authority 
to  publish  it.  The  littleness  which  these  things 
show  is  amazing.  You  find  things  purely  silly, 
like  this  definition  :  —  '^  Poetry  is  the  sense  of  a 
world  past  and  a  world  to  come."  Women,  he 
holds,  should  only  read  prayer-books  or  cookery- 
books.  He  will  tell  you  how  he  met  a  friend,  but 
would  not  ask  him  to  dinner  because  he  wanted 
to  eat  a  whole  turbot  by  himself.  He  makes  entries 
of  his  feeding  his  cats  and  his  raven.  He  observes 
that  he  has  torn  a  button  off  his  coat.  He  will 
bewail  the  death  of  a  barber  or  a  dentist,  and  put 
them  high  above  the  Duke  of  Wellington.  All  this 
might  be  excused  if  it  were  sincere  —  I  mean  sin- 
cere trifling,  or  sincere  folly.  But  no  :  it  was  all  an 
affectation  of  trifling,  a  variety  of  pose  and  of  mys- 
tification. Now  this  is  what  M.  Taine  has  not  seen 
sufficiently  or  reckoned  with  enough.  A  score  of 
times  as  I  read  his  eloquent  pages  on  Byron's 
stormy  soul,  I  have  felt  tempted  to  whisper  in  liis 
ear  Chamfort's  saying,  "  The  great  art  is  the  art  of 
not  being  taken  in." 

I  have  scarcely  space  to  say  a  few  words  con- 


TAINE's  history  of  ENGLISH  LITERATURE       95 

cerning  M.  Taine's  style,  and  yet  I  should  have 
liked  to  study  his  fashion  of  writing  —  so  full  of 
vigor,  I  had  almost  said  of  violence.  I  think  that 
by  considering  its  processes  closely,  one  might 
again  trace  the  effect  of  the  author's  ideas  of 
system.  M.  Taine  is  an  artist  beyond  doubt,  and  a 
very  powerful  one  :  but  he  is  an  artist  bound  appren- 
tice to  a  savant.  He  is  a  man  of  thought  first  of 
all  ;  he  demonstrates,  he  describes  because  descrip- 
tion is  another  way  of  demonstrating,  but  he  does 
not  tell  a  story.  The  picture  which  he  constructs 
by  means  of  innumerable  strokes,  ingeniously  com- 
bined, is  only  the  visible  image  of  his  thesis  itself. 
His  multiplied  descriptions,  his  accumulated  details, 
his  masses  of  words  are  but  so  many  arguments 
which  he  urges  upon  you.  His  very  imagery  smells 
of  logic.  I  can  never  read  him  without  thinkiug 
of  those  gigantic  steam-hammers  which  strike 
redoubled  and  resounding  blows,  which  send  out 
myriads  of  sparks,  and  under  the  ceaseless  blows  of 
which  the  solid  steel  is  fashioned  and  wrought. 
Everything  gives  an  idea  of  power,  a  sensation  of 
force  ;  but  it  must  be  added  that  so  much  noise  is 
deafening,  and  that  after  all,  if  the  style  is  as  solid 
and  as  flashing  as  metal,  it  is  also  sometimes  as 
heavy  and  as  hard. 


VI 

SHAKESPEARE   AND  CRITICISM 

I  HAVE  just  received  three  new  volumes  of  M. 
Einile  Montegut's  translation  of  Shakespeare's 
works,  containing  the  English  history-plays.  The 
earlier  volumes  gave  us  the  Comedies,  and,  with 
three  or  four  volumes  more  for  the  great  dramas, 
the  pieces  with  ancient  subjects,  and  the  Poems, 
the  book  will  be  finished.  I  have  subjected  M. 
Montegut's  Avork  to  a  rigorous  examination.  I 
have  not  been  satisfied  with  turning  it  over,  but 
have  re-read  some  of  the  original  plays,  comparing 
the  translation  in  all  difficult  places.  And  I  have 
been  struck  with  the  care  and  the  success  of  the 
rendering  of  these  passages.  It  is  no  small  task  to 
reproduce  the  good  and  bad  jokes,  the  inexhaust- 
ible plays  on  words,  which  the  dramatist  allows 
himself  even  in  the  most  pathetic  situations.  But 
M.  Montegut  has,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases, 
come  out  successful.  I  should  add  that  in  the 
translation  each  piece  is  preceded  by  an  introduc- 
tion, and  followed  by  notes,  in  both  of  which  I  have 
found  the  best-established  results  of  criticism.  I 
need  hardly  say  that  I  do  not  invariably  agree  with 
M.  Montegut  ;  for  instance,  I  could  not  give  him 
96 


SHAKESPEARE   AND    CEITICISM  97 

my  adhesion  on  tlie  meaning  of  "  The  Tempest  "  ; 
for  I  cannot  recognize  in  it  the  poet's  last  will  and 
testament,  his  farewell  to  the  public,  the  summing 
up  of  his  dramatic  work.  But  these  are  disagree- 
ments of  detail.  As  a  rule,  M.  Montegut's  judg- 
ments are  as  solid  as  they  are  ingeniously  supported. 
It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  translator  will  not  finish 
his  work  without  adding  to  it  a  general  essay  on 
the  English  poet's  genius  :  and  I  take  pleasure  in 
the  anticipation  of  seeing  so  subtle  and  so  attrac- 
tive a  mind  employed  in  the  analysis  of  one  of  the 
most  complex  geniuses  which  have  ever  existed.^ 

I  am  glad  that  Shakespeare  supplies  me  with  an 
occasion  for  speaking  of  IM.  Courdaveaux,  Profes- 
sor in  the  Faculty  of  Letters  at  Douai,  and  author 
of  a  volume^  of  literary  studies.  Most  of  these 
studies  are  devoted  to  Latin  poets,  and  among 
them  to  the  Latin  poets  of  love.  But  Shakespeare 
also  has  two  articles  as  his  share.  In  all  these 
pieces  the  author  gives  evidence  of  an  elegant 
scholarship,  shows  knowledge  of  his  texts,  and 
frames  his  presentation  of  them  with  observations 
which  show  good  taste  and  ingenuity.  Unfortu- 
nately M.  Courdaveaux  has  a  thesis.  According 
to  him  there  is  a  close  connection  between  a  man's 

1  Œuvres  Complètes  de  Shakespeare.  Translated  by  Emile 
Montégut.  The  trauslation  is  now  completed  in  ten  volumes; 
but  the  author  has  not  included  the  Introduction  for  which  I 
wished. 

2  Caractères  et  Talents  :  Etudes  sur  la  Littérature  Ancienne 
et  Moderne.    Par  Y.  Courdaveaux. 


98  ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

talent  and  his  moral  character.     If  Theocritus  was 
not  a  poet  of  the  first  class,  it  is  because  he  was 
deficient,  not  in  intellectual,  but  in  moral,  qualities. 
If  Chenier  is  superior  to  Propertius,  it  is  because 
Chenier  was  a  much   better   man.    If  Virgil  and 
Horace  excelled  the  other  flatterers  of  Augustus,  it 
is  because  they  knew  how,  even  in  flattering,  to 
preserve  a  certain  dignity.     If,  to  conclude,  Shake- 
speare deserves  to  be  set  above  all  his  contempora- 
ries, it  is  first  of  all  because  he  excelled  them  in 
nobility  of  sentiment,  in  rectitude  and  elevation  of 
ideas.     Even  the  enigmatical  character  of  Hamlet 
is  explained   in    the  most  natural  manner  in  the 
world    by  the  virtues  of  the  poet.      Shakespeare 
would  have  been  incapable  of  commiting  a  murder 
in  cold  blood,  however  much  circumstances  might 
have    seemed    to  him  to  make  vengeance  a  duty. 
He  would  have  hesitated  and  drawn  back.     Well, 
then,  Shakespeare    has  lent    his  own    feelings  to 
Hamlet,  and  thence  comes  the  irresolution  of  which 
that  personage  has  become  the  never-to-be-forgotten 
type.     Goethe,  Schlegel,  and  all  the  rest  have  given 
themselves  much  useless  trouble  because  they  forgot 
that  a  great  poet  is  a  worthy  man,  and  that  a  wor- 
thy man  necessarily  portrays  himself  in  his  works. 
I  cannot  stop  to  discuss  a  question  which  would 
take  me  too  far,  and  which  does  not  seem  to  be  well 
formulated  by  M.  Courdaveaux.     There  is  on  this 
head  a  confusion  of  things  which  ought  to  be  kept 
distinct.      I   incline  to  think  that  a  lîoet  in  the 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   CRITICISM  99 

most  exalted  sense  of  tlie  word  could  not  be  a 
knave  or  a  fribble.  The  very  cultivation  of  the  art, 
the  direction  of  mind  which  it  implies,  the  ideal 
cast  of  thought  imply  a  sort  of  moral  life.  The 
conception  of  the  beautiful  is  a  pure  thing,  and  all 
impurity  is  damage  done  to  the  aesthetic  perfection 
of  the  work.  Great  poets  are  healthy  by  nature. 
But  this  is  a  very  different  thing  from  saying  that 
the  poet  is  a  good  man  endowed  with  talent,  or  that 
genius  consists  in  worthily  expressing  noble  sen- 
timents. It  is  still  less  equivalent  to  saying  that 
the  end  of  art  is  to  disseminate  good  principles  or 
furnish  fine  examples.  It  must  be  clear  how  many 
distinctions  have  to  be  made  to  settle  completely 
the  old  problem  of  the  relations  of  the  beautiful 
and  the  good,  of  art  and  of  morality.  But  I  cannot 
dwell  on  this,  and  I  must  pass  to  a  book  on  Shake- 
speare which  seems  to  me  to  mark  a  new  epoch  in 
criticism. 

There  is  no  country  where  Shakespeare-worship 
has  been  more  fervently  professed  than  in  Germany. 
All  schools  of  philosophy  and  literature  pay  equal 
homage  to  the  mighty  dramatist  ;  all  have  selected 
his  personality  as  the  representative  of  the  highest 
poetry  :  and  they  differ  only  in  the  point  of  view 
at  which  they  place  themselves  for  the  purpose  of 
better  exalting  the  genius  of  the  poet.  Thus  the 
different  forms  of  admiration  "for  Shakespeare  be- 
yond the  Rhine  give  us  a  kind  of  abstract  of  the 
vicissitudes  of  criticism  in  what  is  the  classic  land 
of   theory. 


100         ESSAVS    ON    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

The  Komantic  School  was  the  first  to  write  the 
name  of  Shakespeare  on  its  banners.  Lessing  had 
already  set  the  exami)le  of  tlic  English  drama  in 
opposition  to  the  artiiicial  rules  of  the  French 
tragedy.  But  the  Romantics  went  further.  They 
put  Shakespeare  forward  as  the  representative  of 
the  middle  ages,  to  which  they  had  taken  a  fancy. 
They  sought  and  found  in  him  all  the  elements  of 
art  as  they  understood  it.  They  acquitted  him  of 
all  the  defects  with  which  he  was  reproached  — 
slips  in  history  and  geography  as  well  as  mere  faults 
of  taste.  Their  sun  must  have  no  spots  ;  their 
Bible  must  remain  infallible.  Shakespeare  had  been 
regarded  as  an  unconscious  poet.  They  claimed 
for  him  the  full  and  clear  conviction  of  his  own 
genius  and  his  own  work.  In  short,  the  author  of 
"  Hamlet  "  was  proclaimed  the  universal  poet,  the 
giant  of  the  ages,  the  supreme  exponent  of  his  age, 
of  humanity,  of  the  world. 

Philosophical  speculation  succeeded  Eomantic 
mysticism  :  yet  without  affecting  the  new  cult, 
to  which  it  was  satisfied  with  giving  a  different 
meaning.  Hegel  in  his  "  esthetic  "  followed  the 
development  of  the  idea  through  the  different 
phases  of  art  —  the  symbolic  art  of  Asia,  the  clas- 
sical art  of  the  Greeks,  and  finally  the  romantic 
art  of  the  Moderns.  This  latter,  in  obedience  to 
the  ternary  arrangement  of  the  system,  passed 
from  painting  to  music,  then  from  music  to  poetry, 
and  went  through  the  three  successive  phases  of 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   CRITICISM  101 

epic,  lyric,  and  drama.  Thus  drama  represented 
the  highest  and  completest  form  of  art,  and  Sliake- 
speare,  it  will  be  understood,  came  in  at  this  final 
term  of  the  demonstration  as  a  personification  of 
the  dramatic  class.  Tlie  English  poet  thus  had 
still  to  play  pretty  much  the  same  part,  and  con- 
tinued to  hide  himself  from  vulgar  eyes  in  uncon- 
tested and  inaccessible  supremacy. 

Time  brought  with  it  a  fresh  reaction  :  the  appar- 
ent rigor  of  the  Hegelian  dialectic  had  succeeded 
the  fantasies  of  Komanticism  ;  but  a  day  came 
when  this  dialectic  seemed  hollow.  The  Germans 
were  suddenly  seized  with  a  great  disgust  for  for- 
mulas. They  turned  eagerly  towards  active  life  : 
they  stimulated  themselves  to  become  men  of 
action.  Public  and  private  virtues  recovered  in 
their  eyes  the  place  too  long  usurped  by  contempla- 
tion. Thenceforward  nothing  was  fine  unless  it  w^as 
moral.  Lucky  Shakespeare  to  find  the  means  of 
preserving  his  royalty  even  in  this  third  evolution  ! 
An  eminent  critic,  Herr  G-ervinus,  hastened  to 
prove  (in  four  volumes)  that  Shakespeare  was  the 
greatest  of  moralists,  the  most  eloquent  defender 
of  the  ways  of  Providence,  the  surest  guide  of  man- 
kind in  the  paths  of  virtue.  Kot  a  play  of  his  but, 
under  the  commentator's  pen,  ended  by  showing 
some  intention  of  high  teaching. 

Never  had  more  ability  been  put  at  the  service  of 
an  unluckier  thesis.  It  so  happens  that  Shakespeare 
is  of  all  the  great  poets  the  furthest  removed,  not 


102         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITEKATUKE 

merely  from  any  thought  of  didactics,  but  from  all 
fixed  ideas  of  the  moral  kind.  A  poet  pure  and 
simple,  he  treats  good  and  evil  as  im})artially  as 
Nature  herself.  But  Germany  had  a  tit  of  utility 
and  didactics  upon  her  ;  and  it  was  necessary  to 
confirm  her  in  this  way  of  wisdom  without  disturb- 
ing her  faith  in  Shakespeare.  This  Avas  the  origin 
of  Herr  Gervinus's  book  ;  he  gave  a  new  opening 
to  the  need  for  engouement  which  characterizes  our 
ingenious  neighbors. 

Up  to  this  point,  and  through  all  these  revolu- 
tions of  taste  and  thought,  enthusiasm  had  remained 
unaffected;  the  unconscious  poet  and  the  learned 
poet,  the  unrestrained  fantasist  and  the  exalted 
sage,  had  been  admired  by  turns  ;  but  the  genius 
had  been  unceasingly  declared  unique  and  incom- 
parable. Each  vied  with  other  in  extravagance  of 
praise  ;  there  were  no  reserves.  It  would  have 
seemed  indecent  to  pick  out  faults  or  even  to  set 
degrees  between  beauties.  Men  were  ready  to  say 
with  Victor  Hugo,  "  The  oak  has  an  eccentric  fashion 
of  growing  —  knotty  boughs,  sombre  foliage,  rough 
and  coarse  bark  —  but  he  is  the  oak.  And  it  is 
because  of  all  this  that  he  is  the  oak.'^  It  would  have 
been  thought  a  want  of  filial  piety  to  treat  the  mas- 
ter's works  like  those  of  any  other  mortal.  But 
alas  !  no  faith  is  so  deeply  rooted  in  the  human 
soul  that  it  is  not  shaken  at  last.  There  is  no 
movement  so  unanimous  that  it  does  not  sooner  or 
later  provoke  a  reaction,  and  the  more  blind  and 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   CRITICISM  103 

excessive  the  tide  has  been  the  more  certain  is  the 
reflux.  In  no  other  way  than  this  can  the  balance  ■ 
to  which  all  human  affairs  tend  be  established; 
though,  more  properly  speaking,  it  is  never  estab-  [ 
lished  at  all,  but  consists  in  this  very  fluctuation  of 
the  mind  between  opinions  which  are  always  partly 
true  and  partly  false. 

Shakespeare-worship  is  an  example  of  this.  Un- 
doubtedly the  religion  had  become  a  superstition, 
and  the  very  fanaticism  of  the  believers  was  sure 
to  end  in  arousing  the  objections  of  sceptics.  At 
the  very  least  independent  spirits  were  sure  to 
claim  the  right  of  free  examination  :  and  this  is 
what  has  actually  happened.  Some  two  years  ago 
there  appeared  in  Germany  a  little  book  which 
dares  to  discuss  Shakespeare,  to  distinguish  the 
strong  from  the  weak  points  in  him,  to  bring  him 
back  under  the  common  law  of  criticism.  It  is 
clear  that  a  new  error  announces  itself  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  poet's  destiny.^ 

The  ground-idea  of  Herr  Eumelin's  book  is  the 
necessity,  if  we  wish  to  understand  Shakespeare,  of 
transporting  ourselves  into  the  circumstances  in  * 
the  midst  of  which  he  lived  and  wrote.  We  make, 
he  thinks,  a  false  estimate  of  the  rank  which 
Shakespeare  enjoyed  in  the  esteem  of  his  contem- 
poraries —  of  the  reputation  in  which  his  works 
were  held  by  court  and  public  ;  and  we  thus  sur- 
round his  image  wdth  a  halo  by  which  we  proceed 

1  Shakespearestudien.  Von  Gustav  Riimelin.  Stuttgart.  186G. 


104         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

to  let  ourselves  be  dazzled.  He  would  have  tlie 
truth  to  be  tliat  tlie  tlieatre  was  in  very  evil  odor 
during  tliosc  Puritanic  times  ;  that  it  was  attended 
only  by  the  populace  on  the  one  hand,  and  by  a  few 
young  men  of  fashion  on  the  other  ;  tliat  the  voca- 
tion of  an  actor  was  universally  despised  ;  that 
Shakespeare  does  not  seem  to  have  enjoyed  any 
extraordinary  vogue  during  his  own  life  ;  that,  in 
short,  the  unequalled  glory  with  which  his  name 
is  now  for  ever  surrounded  dates  no  further  back 
than  some  hundred  years  ago. 

We  shall  see  in  a  moment  the  consequences  which 
Herr  Riimelin  thinks  he  can  deduce  from  these 
facts.  But  I  must  begin  by  requesting  the  reader 
not  to  accept  the  facts  themselves  too  hastily. 
The  verses  in  which  Ben  Jon  son  equals  Shake- 
speare to  the  greatest  tragedians  of  antiquity  suffice 
to  show  what  the  contemporaries  of  the  poet  thought 
of  him.  The  epitaph  in  which  Milton  not  merely 
expresses  his  admiration  for  the  dead  poet,  but  calls 

him 

Dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 

proves  that  the  succeeding  generation  were  no  more 
insensible  than  we  are  to  the  beauties  of  Shake- 
speare. But  Herr'  Riimelin  has  been  unlucky 
throughout  this  part  of  his  book.  He  has  sum- 
moned to  support  his  thesis  certain  sixteenth- 
century  documents,  and  it  so  happens  that  these 
documents  are  part  of  a  pretty  considerable  collec- 
tion of  forged  autographs.     The   English   are  not 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   CKITICISM  105 

less  active  than  we  are  in  this  kind  of  fabrication  ; 
it  may  be  added  that  they  are  not  more  skilful,  and 
that  the  most  cursory  reading  ought  to  have  been 
enough  to  put  M.  Hiimelin  on  his  guard. 

Our  author's  starting   point  is  indeed   in   itself  ^ 
incontestable.     It  is  certain  that  we  appreciate  the  ' 
work  of  a  writer  much  better  when  we  strip  him 
of  the  halo  with  which  fate  has  surrounded   him 
and   restore  him  to   the   company  of   the   circum- 
stances in  which  he  lived.     And  it  is  good,  in  order 
to   understand  Shakespeare,  to  remember  that   he 
was  an  actor  and  the  manager  of  a  theatre.     His 
plays  were  not  merely  pieces  of  literature,  but  also, 
and  first  of  all,  things  forced  upon  him  by  his  busi- 
ness.    He  did  not  write   for   posterity,  but   for  a 
special  public  which  he  had  to  please.     This  is  all 
true  ;  but  it  is  not  less  true  at  the  same  time  that 
it  is  possible  to  abuse  such  considerations,  and  Herr 
Eumelin  gives  an  example  of  it  when  he  hints  that 
Shakespeare    portrayed    his    friend    the    Earl    of 
Southampton  under  the  features   of  young  Harry 
the  Fifth.     When  he  guesses  that  the  plays  taken 
from  Roman  history  were  meant  to  serve  as  a  warn- 
ing to  the  same  Southampton — "Coriolanus"  exhib- 
iting to  him  the  dangers  of  aristocratic  insolence, 
"Antony  and  Cleopatra"  those  of  amorous  intrigue, 
''Julius    C?esar"    those    of    ambition  —  when,   in 
short,  criticism  plunges  thus  headlong  into  conjee-  - 

ture,  we  can  only  remember  that  things  like  these  ^ 

are  pure  hypotheses,  as  incapable  of   proof  as  of 


106         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

disproof.  It  is  the  same  with  this  whole  class  of 
liistorical  considerations.  We  may  grant  that 
Shakespeare,  working  according  to  the  needs  of  the 
theatre,  did  not  always  subject  his  work  to  very 
severe  discipline.  He  wrote  scene  after  scene, 
developing  first  one  situation,  then  another,  and 
ending  by  losing  sight  of  the  unity  of  the  whole 
work.  It  is  certain  that  there  are  two  distinct 
dramas  in  "  King  Lear,'^  and  that  most  of  the  pieces 
drawn  from  English  history  are  mere  chronicles 
thrown  into  dialogue.  But  Herr  Kiimelin  goes 
much  farther.  We  know  in  what  a  questionable 
shape  the  part  of  Hamlet  presents  itself,  in  how 
many  ways  commentators  have  sought  to  explain 
this  mysterious  mixture  of  irresolution  and  enter- 
prise, of  hidden  designs  and  capricious  sallies. 
For  Herr  Riimelin  there  is  no  mystery  at  all.  The 
character  of  Hamlet  is  simply  incoherent  ;  and  it  is 
incoherent  because  the  poet  worked  in  bits  and 
scraps  ;  because  he  did  not  know  how  to  bind  the 
scenes  together,  to  run  the  shades  into  one.  In  a 
word,  we  are  to  see  no  problem  here,  but  the  actual 
imperfection  of  the  work.  Perhaps  so  ;  but  it  will 
be  granted  that  this  is  to  cut  the  knot  rather  than 
to  untie  it. 

Herr  Eiimelin  explains  the  great  features  of 
Shakespeare's  genius  in  the  same  way  as  the  de- 
fects of  his  dramas,  by  the  circumstances  of  his 
life.  We  must,  he  holds,  always  come  back  to  the 
one  point:  the  poet  was  a  manager.     Everything 


SHAKESPEARE   AND   CRITICISM  107 

follo'ws  from  this.  Shakespeare's  profession  has 
its  inconveniences  as  well  as  its  advantages.  If  it 
assists  the  knowledge  of  mankind,  it  is  not  favorable 
to  experience  of  the  world.  Hence,  Shakespeare 
is  distinguished  for  the  creation  of  a  multitude  of 
characters,  all  living  and  individual;  his  theatre 
is  a  gallery  of  portraits  which,  once  seen,  can  never 
be  forgotten.  Xo  writer  ha.s  ever  shown  such  a 
faculty  of  creation.  On  the  other  hand  (still  ac- 
cording to  Herr  Kiimelin),  the  action  in  the  Eng- 
lish dramatist's  works  is  weak.  You  see  that  he  is 
ignorant  of  society  and  of  the  secret  springs  of 
events  ;  in  particular  he  errs  by  making  situations 
too  much  the  result  of  personal  character.  Expe- 
rience tells  us  that  things  do  not  happen  thus  in 
real  life.  We  must  remember,  too,  that  a  manager's 
career  is  full  of  agitations.  It  allows  of  no  rest. 
And  so,  assuming  that  the  manager  be  an  actor  as 
well,  it  makes  the  most  feverish  existence  that  can 
be  imagined.  Herr  Kumelin  has  no  hesitation  in 
thus  explaining  the  touch  of  excess  and  morbidity 
which  he  finds  in  most  of  Shakespeare's  creations. 

On  the  whole,  and  in  spite  of  many  just  and  strik- 
ing observations  in  detail,  it  is  impossible  to  say 
that  Herr  Eiimelin  has  succeeded  in  his  attempt. 
He  has  done  a  service  to  criticism  in  protesting  ^ 
against  an  enthusiasm  which  refused  to  argue  under 
pretext  of  admiring  better  without  argument,  but 
he  has  not  produced  any  considerable  result  from 
the  new  method  which  he  professed  to  apply  to  the 


V 


108         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

works  of  Shakespeare.  The  reason  is  that  history 
never  explains  a  man  ;  that  circumstances  modify 
but  do  not  create  a  living  personality.  They  can 
at  most  help  us  to  understand  the  turn  which  his 
genius  took,  the  obstacles  which  he  had  to  surmount, 
the  limits  which  were  imposed  upon  him.  And  so 
Herr  Eumelin's  criticism,  doubtless  altogether  unin- 
tentionally, has  become  almost  entirely  negative  ; 
he  has  principally  told  us  what  Shakespeare  was 
not. 

And  then,  since  humanity  can  never  do  without 
superstitions,  he  hurries,  in  the  very  process  of 
upsetting  one  idol,  to  set  up  another  in  its  place. 
What  hurts  Herr  Iliimelin  most  in  German  Shake- 
speare-worship is,  it  seems,  its  preference  of  Shake- 
speare to  German  poets,  Goethe  in  particular.  The 
last  chapter  of  the  book  draws  a  parallel  between 
the  two  writers  in  which  the  German  is  naturally 
allowed  to  have  the  best  of  it.  I  do  not  care  to 
follow  M.  E-iimelin  in  this  kind  of  comparison, 
neither  the  use  nor  the  interest  of  which  have  I 
ever  understood  :  not  to  mention  that  here  the 
terms  of  juxtaposition  are  almost  wholly  points  of 
contrast.  What  can  there  be  in  common  between 
two  authors  of  whom  one  lived  fifty,  the  other 
eighty-four  years  ;  of  whom  the  first  gave  himself  up 
almost  wholly  to  drama,  while  the  second  attempted 
every  style,  busied  himself  with  all  science,  exer- 
cised himself  in  every  path  ;  of  whom,  finally,  the 
latter  carried  into  art  every  resource  of  erudition, 


SHAKESPEAPwE   AND   CRITICISM  109 

while  the  former  still  belongs  to  art  which  is  simply 
creative  ? 

Strange  to  say,  Herr  Riimelin  has  no  sooner 
arrived  at  Goethe,  than  he  loses  all  the  faculties  of 
measure  and  discretion  which  he  had  shown  in 
speaking  of  the  English  poet.  This  is  the  way  of 
the  Germans  ;  they  will  end  by  spoiling  Goethe  for 
us  by  mere  dint  of  exaggeration.  I,  for  my  part, 
know  few  writers  for  whom  I  feel  a  greater  admira- 
tion, to  whom  I  owe  deeper  and  more  lasting  de- 
light ;  but  I  am  bound  to  say  that  neither  do  I  know 
one  in  whose  case  I  am  more  convinced  of  the  ne- 
cessity of  allowances  and  reserves.  The  day  of  rea- 
soned criticism  must  surely  come  for  Goethe,  as  it 
seems  to  have  come  for  Shakespeare  at  last;  and 
then  men  will  wonder  at  the  complaisance  with 
which  we  now  shut  our  eyes  to  his  faults.  We  are 
too  prone  to  forget  how  much  littleness  is  compati- 
ble with  greatness,  and  how  many  parts  of  weak- 
ness and  dulness  the  highest  genius  may  contain. 
Goethe  is  one  of  the  most  striking  examples  of  this 
truth.  He  is  the  author  of  some  of  the  most  perfect 
work  that  any  literature  has  produced,  and  of  some 
of  the  most  tiresome  books  that  have  been  written 
in  any  language.  Side  by  side  with  profound  and 
admirably  expressed  thoughts,  there  are  to  be  found 
in  his  books  a  multitude  of  pompously  enunciated 
commonplaces.  He  is  wanting  both  in  critical  pre- 
cision and  in  creative  power.  Exquisite,  accom- 
plished, and  extensive  as  was  his  culture,  he  lacked 


IIU         KSîSAÏS    ON   EN(JLLSli    LlTEllATUKE 

more  than  one  of  the  principal  elements  of  thought. 
History  was  a  stranger  to  his  meditations.  He  was 
acquainted  neither  with  the  society  of  great  cities, 
nor  with  the  policy  of  great  states.  His  genius  at 
first  showed  an  admirable  combination  of  sentiment 
and  reflection  ;  but  in  the  long  run  reflection  got 
the  better  and  cast  a  chill  over  the  whole.  His 
finest  works  belong  to  that  period  of  his  life  when 
the  consummate  science  of  the  artist  was  balanced 
by  passionate  ardor.  But  afterwards  the  intention 
of  teaching  and  the  calculation  of  effect  got  the 
upper  hand  so  much  that  he  revelled  more  and 
more  in  symbols,  in  ideas,  in  dissertation.  Let  us 
say  it  boldly,  the  second  part  of  "  Faust  "  is  insup- 
portable, the  second  part  of  "  Wilhelm  Meister  ''  is 
painful,  and  the  last  half  of  the  "  Memoirs  "  simply 
presents  us  with  the  portfolio  of  an  old  man  who 
wishes  to  make  the  very  utmost  of  his  former  stud- 
ies. Goethe,  who  is  assuredly  not  so  mighty  a 
genius  as  Shakespeare,  is  a  genius  of  greater  extent 
and  universality  :  but  Shakespeare  at  least  did  not 
outlive  himself. 


VII 

MILTON  AND  "PARADISE   LOST" 


Who  knows  not  the  visit  which  Candide  and 
Martin  paid  to  Signor  Pococurante,  a  noble  Vene- 
tian ?  ^  When  they  had  talked  of  painting  and 
music  they  went  into  the  library,  and  Candide,  per- 
ceiving a  Milton,  could  not  prevent  himself  from 
asking  his  host  whether  he  did  not  look  upon  this 
writer  as  a  great  man.  "  What  ?  "  said  Pococurante, 
'Hhe  barbarian  who  constructed  a  long  commentary 
on  the  first  chapter  of  G-enesis  in  ten  books  of  harsh 
verse  ?  The  clumsy  imitator  of  the  Greeks  who 
caricatures  creation  and  who,  while  Moses  repre- 
sents the  Eternal  Being  as  creating  the  world  by 
his  word,  makes  the  Messiah  take  a  big  compass 
out  of  a  cupboard  in  heaven  to  trace  out  the  work  ? 
What  ?  I  admire  the  man  who  has  spoilt  Tasso's 
hell  and  Tasso's  devil;  who  makes  Lucifer  mas- 
querade, now  as  a  toad,  now  as  a  pigmy  ;  who  puts 
the  same  speech  in  his  mouth  a  hundred  times 
over  ;  who  represents  him  as  arguing  on  divinity  ; 
who,  in  attempting  a  serious  imitation  of  Ariosto's 
comic  invention  of  fire-arms,  makes  the  devils  fire 

1  [Candide,  Chao.  xxv.  —  Trans.'\ 

111 


112         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

cannon  in  heaven  ?  Neither  I,  nor  anybody  in 
Italy,  has  ever  been  able  to  take  pleasure  in  all 
these  dismal  extravagances.  His  marriage  of  Sin 
and  Death,  and  the  snakes  of  which  Sin  is  deliv- 
ered, make  any  man  of  tolerably  delicate  taste  sick, 
and  his  long  description  of  a  hospital  is  only  gooa 
for  a  grave-digger.  This  obscure,  eccentric,  and 
disgusting  poem  was  despised  at  its  birth  :  and  I 
treat  it  to-day  as  it  was  treated  in  its  own  country 
by  its  own  contemporaries.  Anyhow,  I  say  what  I 
think,  and  I  really  care  very  little  whether  others 
agree  with  me  or  not." 

A  mere  fling,  you  will  say,  and  not  of  any  conse- 
quence.    Wait  :  here  is  another  bright  spirit  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  who  takes  the  fling  quite  seri- 
ously and  eagerly  indorses  it.     ^'  I  hate  devils  mor- 
tally," writes    Mme.   du   Deffand   to   Voltaire,  "  I 
cannot  tell  you  the  pleasure  I  have  had  in  finding 
in  'Candide'  all  the  evil  you  have  spoken  of  Mil- 
ton.    It  seemed  to  me  that  the  whole  was  my  own 
thought  :   for  I   always   detested   him."     Thus   we 
see  that  once  upon  a  time  French  taste  found  itself 
face  to  face  Avith  "  Paradise  Lost  "  and  straightfor- 
wardly expressed  its  repugnance  for  a  poem  which 
is,  it  must  be  frankly  confessed,  very  foreign  to  the 
ji  habits  and  traditions  of  our  literature.     It  is  the 
■   way  of  taste  to  deliver  judgments   like   these  — 
i   judgments  which  are  all  the  more  positive  from  the 
j    very  fact  that  they  merely  render  an  impression. 
Admiration,  when  things  are  regarded  in  this  way, 


MILTON   AND    "PARADISE   LOST"  113 

is  not  more  reasonable  than  aversion  ;  or,  if  either 
reasons,  it  starts  equally  from  a  personal  sentiment. 
But  let  us  go  from  France  to  England,  from  the 
detractors  of  Milton  to  his  panegyrists.  Addison 
does  not  deign  to  ask  whether  "Paradise  Lost" 
merits  the  name  of  a  heroic  poem.  "  Let  us  call  it 
a  divine  one,"  he  says,  "and  say  no  more  about  it." 
It  lacks  none  of  the  beauties  of  the  highest  poetry, 
and  if  there  are  also  spots  in  it  we  must  remember 
that  there  are  spots  in  the  sun.  But  perhaps  it 
will  be  said  that  Addison  is  obsolete.  With  all  my 
heart.  Let  us,  then,  open  our  Macaulay,  a  modern 
surely,  and  one  who  has  read  and  compared  every- 
thing. One  of  his  essays  —  indeed,  the  first  that 
he  wrote  for  the  '-Edinburgh  Review" — has  Mil- 
ton for  its  subject.  Good  heavens,  what  enthusi- 
asm !  The  whole  English  language  is  ransacked  to 
supply  the  Whig  critic  with  admiring  epithets. 
Even  "Paradise  Eegained"  receives  his  homage. 
The  superiority  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  over  "  Paradise 
Eegained"  is  not  more  certain  than  the  superiority 
of  "Paradise  Regained"  over  any  poem  that  has 
appeared  since.  Well  done  !  that  is  something  like 
having  an  opinion.  One  recognizes  in  this  dogmatic 
judgment  the  writer  of  whom  Lord  Lansdowne  ^ 
said  once,  "  I  wish  I  was  as  cocksure  of  anything 
as  Tom  Macaulay  is  of  everything."  Still  the 
writer's  assurance  is  here  reasonable  enough  :  he  is 

1  [It  was  Lord  Melbourne,  was  it  not  ?    It  is  certainly  more 
in  his  way. —  Trans.} 


114         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

expressing  his  tastes,  translating  his  impressions, 
and,  so  long  as  we  keep  to  this  region  of  personal 
literary  sentiment,  Macaulay  has  as  much  right  to 
admire  as  Pococurante  to  depreciate. 

Of  this,  criticism  has  now  convinced  itself.  It  has 
perceived  the  barrenness  of  these  positive  tastes, 
of  these  contradictory  judgments.  It  has  felt  that 
^  there  is  a  method  at  once  more  decisive  and  fairer  : 
Jthe  method  which  sets  to  work  to  comprehend 
^  rather  than  to  class,  to  explain  rather  than  to  judge. 
Such  criticism  seeks  to  give  account  of  the  work 
by  means  of  the  genius  of  the  workman  and  of  the 
form  which  this  genius  has  taken  under  pressure  of 
the  circumstances  among  which  it  has  been  devel- 
oped. Yet,  therewithal,  it  denies  not  the  eternal 
poetic  substance,  the  creative  power  in  face  of 
which  we  find  ourselves,  when  all  is  said,  in  the 
case  of  any  masterpiece.  But,  by  the  side  of  this 
element,  which  is,  so  to  speak,  irreducible,  it  makes 
allowance  for  date,  for  country,  for  education,  for 
dominant  ideas,  for  the  general  course  of  events. 
From  these  two  things — the  analysis  of  the  writer's 
character  and  the  study  of  his  age — there  arises 
spontaneously  an  understanding  of  his  work,  in- 
stead of  a  personal  and  arbitrary  estimate  made  by 
the  first  comer.  We  see  that  work,  after  a  fashion, 
pronouncing  judgment  on  itself,  and  taking  the 
rank  which  belongs  to  it  among  the  productions  of 
the  human  mind.  This  rank  it  occupies  —  I  repeat 
the  fact  and  shall  take  good  care  not  to  forget  it — 


MILTON   AND   "PARADISE   LOST"  115 

thanks  to  poetical  beauties  appreciated  by  the 
reader's  emotion.  But  that  very  emotion^  it  must 
equally  be  remembered,  depends  on  the  point  of 
view  at  which  we  place  ourselves,  on  the  allow- 
ances which  we  make  for  the  author  and  his  epoch, 
on  the  secret  transposition  by  which  we  adjust  his 
music  to  our  own  voices.  All  this  is  the  business 
of  the  historic  intelligence.  The  "  Iliad"  has  gained 
more  than  it  has  lost  by  being  regarded  as  a  national 
saga,  and  the  representation  of  a  still  barbarous 
society.  The  exquisite  poetry  of  the  "  ^neid  "  is 
enjoyed  better  when  we  have  given  up  demanding 
originality  of  epic  conception  in  it;  and  Racine 
exercises  his  power  over  our  emotions  more  cer- 
tainly when  we  have  once  allowed  for  the  artificial 
ars  poetica,  the  conventional  language  of  the  period, 
in  "  Andromaque  "  and  in  "Phèdre.'^ 

II 

Milton  was  born  in  1608,  ten  years  after  the  death 
of  Spenser  and  eight  years  before  that  of  Shake- 
speare. He  died  in  1674,  fourteen  years  after  the 
Restoration.  He  thus  went  back  nearly  to  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  he  saw  the  beginning,  the 
triumph,  and  the  fall  of  the  Commonwealth.  Thus, 
also,  he  belongs  at  once  to  the  Renaissance  and  to 
Puritanism.  The  whole  character  of  his  genius 
and  of  his  work  is  explained  by  this  double  filia- 
tion.    He  is  a  poet,  not  of  the  great  creative  age, 


IIG         ESSAYS   ON    ENGLISn    LITERATURE 

but  of  that  aL,'e's  morrow,  a  morrow  still  possessed 
of  spontaneity  and  conviction.  Yet  he  is  a  didactic 
and  theological  poet,  that  is  to  say,  the  only  kind 
of  i)oet  which  it  was  possible  for  an  English  repub- 
lican of  the  seventeenth  century  to  be. 

The  Renaissance  and  Puritanism  were  two  power- 
ful movements,  at  once  in  alliance  and  in  opposition 
—  two  epochs  diversely  memorable.  I  can  hardly 
understand  why  the  history  of  the  Eenaissance  has. 
not  yet  employed  some  eminent  writer.  There  is 
no  greater  theme,  no  more  varied  subject.  There 
comes  a  day  when  humanity  re-discovers  its  patents 
of  nobility.  It  finds  antiquity  in  the  dust  of  libra- 
ries as  Pompeii  has  since  been  found  under  the 
ashes.  A  whole  new  world  issues  from  these  tat- 
tered parchments,  a  new  ideal  arises  in  the  soul  of 
man.  Forms  of  marvellous  beauty  rise  like  an 
apparition.  There  had  been  no  idea  earlier  of  such 
clear  wisdom,  of  such  fascinating  speculations,  of 
such  a  consummate  art  of  poetry.  Men  came  little 
short  of  adoring  as  divine  immortal  writers  like  the 
great  Plato,  like  the  sweet  Virgil.  But  the  wor- 
ship of  beauty  is  contagious.  These  masterpieces 
naturally  became  models  ;  or,  rather,  in  this  com- 
merce with  the  ancients  there  was  kindled  an  in- 
spiration which  in  turn  produced  its  own  poets, 
and  gave  new  examples  for  the  succeeding  cen- 
turies. Nor  was  this  all.  To  the  enchantments 
of  taste  were  promptly  added  the  satisfactions  of 
reason  and  the  conquests  of  science.     Scholarship 


MILTON   AND    ''PARADISE   LOST*'  117 

was  born  from  the  use  of  ancient  tongues  and  the 
familiarity  with  texts.     Men  taught  themselves  to 
compare  opinions,  to  distinguish  epochs,  to  subject 
traditions   to  doubt.     The  historic  sense  of  things 
was   aroused.     A   breach   was   made  in  authority. 
Finally,  and  as  though  the  rediscovery  of  this  old 
world  were  not  enough,  a  new  world  disclosed  itself. 
Sailors  transformed  the  prevalent  idea  of  the  terres- 
trial globe,  and  astronomers  the  prevalent  idea  of 
the  universe.     Add  to  all  this  the  great  industrial 
inventions,  with,  at  their  head,  that  of  printing, 
which  stands  to  writing  as  writing  does  to  speech, 
which  gives  the  means  of  fixing  the  acquisitions  of 
the  human  mind,  which  thus  constitutes  the  instru- 
ment of  instruments  for  what  is  called  progress. 
And  now  put  on  the  crown  and,  as  it  were,  the 
aureole  of  this  marvellous  time,  in  the  shape  of  the 
produce  of  its  own  special  art,  of  the  masterpieces 
of  its  architects,  its  sculptors,  its  painters  most  of 
all.     Picture  in  this  way  all  the  restorations,   all 
the  conquests,  all  the  glories  of  the  time,  and  say 
if  there  was    ever   in  the   history  of  humanity   a 
stranger    spectacle   or   a   more    exciting   surprise. 
Mankind   made   a  backward   leap  of   fifteen   cen- 
turies to  recover  its  true  traditions.     It  freed  itself 
at  last  from  the  Semitic  spirit.     It  said   good  by 
to   scholasticism   and    asceticism,    it   cast    off  the 
monkish  gown  in  which  its  limbs  had  been  prisoned. 
It  left  the  cloister — long  and  damp  and  sombre  — 
to  bask  once  more  in  God's  sunlight.     Weary  of 


118         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITEKATUKE 

striving  and  struggling,  of  tragical  repentance,  of 
funereal  meditation,  men  opened  their  breasts  to 
the  breath  of  the  spring.  After  long  being  in 
leading-strings  to  priests,  they  tried  to  walk  alone, 
and  bathed  deliciously  in  truth,  in  beauty,  in  nature 
and  its  simplicity.  Oh,  period  truly  incomparable  ! 
Lasting  enchantment  !  Excusable  intoxication  ! 
Second  and  unspeakable  youth  of  the  world  ! 

But  also  what  a  transition  was  that  from  the 
Eenaissance  to  Puritanism  !  And  yet  the  one 
sprang  from  the  other,  for  Puritanism  is  but  Prot- 
estantism in  an  acute  form,  and  Protestantism  itself 
is  but  the  Eenaissance  carried  into  the  sphere  of 
religion  and  theology. 

Yet  again,  what  a  difference  !  The  Puritans  are 
men  to  whom  the  curtains  of  the  heavens  are 
opened,  and  to  whose  eyes  the  realities  of  the  invis- 
ible world  have  been  revealed.  They  have  seen 
Jehovah  on  His  throne,  the  Son  on  His  right  hand, 
and  the  angels  prostrate  before  them.  Thencefor- 
ward, they  live  as  if  in  the  presence  of  this  terrible 
God  and  in  the  expectation  of  judgment.  They 
have  but  one  care,  the  salvation  of  their  immortal 
souls.  Life  for  them  is  but  the  service  of  the  Lord, 
who  has  predestinated  them  to  destroy  idols,  to 
establish  the  true  faith,  to  bring  a  rebellious  world 
into  conformity  with  the  Divine  Will.  Such  is  the 
mission  of  the  faithful  here  below.  He  is  equally 
ready  to  suffer  pillory  or  prison,  and  to  gird  on  the 
sword  like  Gideon  to  slay  the  impious.     Like  all 


MILTON   AND    "PARADISE   LOST"  119 

men  who  are  the  slaves  of  a  single  idea  he  is 
at  once  heroic  and  ridiculous.  Observe  these  long 
faces,  these  mourning  garments,  these  shaven  heads. 
Listen  to  this  Biblical  jargon,  these  hymns  droned 
through  the  nose,  these  endless  prayers,  wiredrawn 
discussions,  curses  of  the  world  and  its  amuse- 
ments. You  will  turn  away  your  head  with  a  smile 
of  pity  or  of  disgust.  Agreed  :  but  these  same  men 
are  stout  soldiers  and  zealous  citizens.  There  are 
generals  and  statesmen  among  the  fanatics  who 
kneel  there  smiting  their  breasts  and  seeking  the 
Lord.  It  is  impossible  not  to  admire  their  sagacity 
in  counsel,  their  constancy  in  undertakings,  their 
valor  and  their  discipline  in  the  field.  It  would 
seem  that,  certain  of  the  reward  which  awaits  them, 
they  carry  into  mundane  affairs  all  the  freer  spirit 
and  all  the  more  entire  devotion. 

The  Puritans  are  the  Jacobins  of  Protestantism. 
In  both  there  is  the  same  abstract  conception  of 
things,  the  same  tyranny  of  the  idea,  the  same 
craving  to  re?,lize  half-seen  visions.  In  both  3^ou 
find  the  twin  tendencies,  radicalism  and  idealism. 
In  both  there  is  an  equal  faith  in  the  Absolute, 
the  source  of  all  fanaticism.  Both  invoke  the 
name  of  Liberty,  but  both  also  invoke  her  rather 
as  a  means  than  as  an  end,  and  truth  is  set  by  both 
above  her.  ^ay,  the  very  Hebrew  names  with 
which  the  Puritans  deck  themselves  recall  our 
Brutuses  and  our  Aristides.  The  two  Utopias, 
classical  democracy  and  the  theocracy  of  the  Bible, 


120         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

are  face  to  face.  For  tlie  Bible  is  the  Koran  of 
ruritanism.  ThelUble  is  to  the  Puritan  a  religion, 
a  proj)hecy,  and  a  code.  It  is  the  rule  absolute  for 
the  individual  and  for  the  State.  It  foresees  all, 
provides  for  all,  has  a  text  for  every  use  and  every 
circumstance.  It  is  no  more  lawful  to  supplement 
it  where  it  is  silent,  than  to  act  against  its  spoken 
commands.  Imagine,  if  it  be  possible,  this  ven- 
erable collection  of  prophets  and  apostles,  this 
sublime  Hebrew  Book  with  its  histories,  its  poems, 
and  its  precepts,  raised  as  a  whole  to  the  impor- 
tance of  a  revelation  from  the  Almighty,  imposed 
as  a  law  upon  society,  applied  to  the  life  of  a 
modern  people,  and  supplying  the  type  of  its 
institutions,  the  rule  of  its  morals,  the  guidance 
of  its  State.  The  object  is  to  establish  a  Christian 
republic,  and,  with  that  end,  to  pass  the  level  of 
the  Bible  over  all  existing  things.  The  Church 
and  the  Monarchy  alike  must  go  down  before  it, 
and  then,  on  the  ground  that  has  been  cleared, 
there  shall  be  built  the  city  of  the  saints,  the 
town  where  the  Eternal,  though  unseen,  shall 
dwell  ! 

And  now,  can  the  reader  imagine  a  contrast  more 
complete  than  that  between  the  Eenaissance  and 
Puritanism  ?  On  one  side  every  curiosity  of  intel- 
ligence, every  research  of  language,  every  refine- 
ment of  taste  ;  poetry,  Avith  its  mythology,  its 
sports,  its  license  ;  the  cultus  of  pagan  antiquity  ; 
a  false  v/isdom  and  false  gods  ;  madrigals,  novels, 


MILTON   AND   "PAEADISE  LOST"  121 

the  theatre.  On  the  other  ardent  fanatics,  sombre 
anchorites,  fanatic  levellers,  full  of  hatred  fo^ 
Satan  and  his  pomps,  caring  for  nothing  but  long 
sermons  and  excited  prayers,  broken  in  to  the 
dogmas  of  Predestination,  of  the  Fall  and  of  Justi- 
fication, burning  to  make  of  Englishmen  a  new 
people  of  Israel.  Such  are  the  powers  which  are 
to  fight  for  ]\Iilton  ;  or,  rather,  such  are  the  different 
inspirations  to  which  he  abandons  himself  simul- 
taneously and  without  a  struggle.  He  is  an  elegant 
poet  and  a  passionate  controversialist,  an  accom- 
plished humanist  and  a  narrow  sectary,  an  admirer 
of  Petrarch  and  Shakespeare  and  a  cunning  exe- 
gete  of  Biblical  texts,  a  lover  of  pagan  antiquity 
and  devoted  to  the  Hebrew  spirit.  He  is  all  this 
at  once,  naturally,  and  without  an  effort  —  a  problem 
in  history,  an  enigma  in  literature  ! 

Ill 

Milton  passed  ten  years  of  his  life  in  study,  in 
travel,  in  brilliant  literary  experiments.  He  spent 
ten  more  in  the  fiercest  struggles  and  the  most 
technical  controversies  of  Puritanism.  Yet  he  was 
never  exactly  a  Prynne  or  exactly  a  Petrarch  ;  if 
there  was  something  of  the  theologian  in  the  poet 
there  was  also  something  of  the  poet  in  the  theolo- 
gian, and  the  two  inspirations  blended  in  him  after 
the  closest  and  most  natural  fashion  in  the  world. 
And  when  old  age  draws  near,  when  the  drama  of 


122         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

the  Kepublic  is  played  out,  when  the  Eestoration 
has  put  an  end  to  Utopias,  Milton  will  at  once 
satisfy  art  and  faith,  the  two  passions  of  his  life, 
in  one  grand  epic. 

That  life  is  well  known.  We  are  not  in  his  case, 
as  we  are  in  Shakespeare's,  reduced  to  a  few  in- 
significant facts  and  a  few  doubtful  traditions.  We 
might  say  that  he  has  written  his  own  biography. 
His  poetry  is  full  of  personal  memories,  and  his 
polemical  works  become  at  times  memoirs  of  his 
life,  passionate  and  naïf  memoirs,  where  the  writer 
reveals  himself  without  any  disguise. 

Milton,  I  have  said,  was  born  in  1608.  His 
father  was  a  notary,  or  something  like  it,  and 
affluent.  Himself  a  man  of  letters,  he  put  his  son 
through  an  excellent  course  of  study.  There  is 
extant  a  Latin  letter  in  which  the  young  man 
thanks  his  father  for  not  having  forced  him  to  read 
law  or  to  enter  a  lucrative  profession,  but  for  let- 
ting him  learn  not  merely  Greek  and  Latin,  but 
French,  Italian,  Hebrew  and  even  the  sciences. 
Nor  is  this  the  only  passage  where  Milton  has 
taken  pleasure  in  recalling  his  early  and  vigorous 
education.^ 

In  one  of  his  tracts  against  episcopacy  he  dwells 

with  even  more  complacency  on  these  fair  years  of 

1  [M.  Scherer  here  and  afterwards  quotes  and  translates  long 
passages  from  the  Defensio  Secunda,  the  Areopagitica,  the 
Apology  for  Smectymnmis,  and  other  works  of  Milton.  As 
these  are  well  known  to  English  readers,  it  has  not  seemed 
necessary  to  encumber  the  text  with  them.  —  Trans.] 


MILTON  AND   "PARADISE  LOST"  123 

study.  He  went,  he  says,  from  historians  to  poets, 
from  poets  to  philosophers,  and  in  this  long  com- 
merce with  ancient  and  modern  writers,  he  was 
able  to  preserve  the  native  x^^rity  of  his  soul  ; 
nay,  more,  to  form  a  sublime  ideal  blent  of  purity, 
poetry,  and  fame.  It  is  a  memorable  passage^ 
where  we  seem  to  see  the  bard  of  the  "  Paradise  " 
preparing  himself  by  mystic  washings  for  the 
work  to  which  the  Most  High  has  charged  him. 

Yet  let  us  hasten  to  say  that  the  innocence  of 
Milton's  morals  was  not  the  result  of  excessive 
occupation  in  study  nor  of  an  extravagant  severity. 
His  youthful  poems  show  traces  of  more  than  one 
affair  of  the  heart.  In  a  Latin  elegy  addressed  to 
his  friend  Diodati  he  describes  the  young  girls 
whom  he  has  seen  passing.  Their  eyes  are  torches, 
their  necks  of  ivory,  their  fair  hair  is  a  net  spread 
by  love  :  Jove  himself  would  feel  young  at  the  sight 
of  so  many  charms.  '^  To  the  virgins  of  Britain," 
cries  the  poet,  "  belongs  the  palm  of  beauty,"  and 
he  was  caught  by  this  beauty.  Another  elegy  tells 
us  how.  He  despised  Love  and  his  arrows;  but 
Love  avenged  himself.  One  spring  as  he  was  walk- 
ing, he  did  not  watch  his  own  glances  enough,  and 
the  sight  of  a  girl  set  his  heart  on  fire, 

"  Protinus  insoliti  subienint  corda  furores 
Uror  amans  intus,  flammaque  totus  eram."  ^ 

1  [The  famous  one  from  the  Apology  for  Smectymnmis.  — 
Trans.] 

2  ["  My  heart  forthwith  unwonted  passions  tame, 

Love  burns  my  soul  within,  and  all  was  flame."  —  Trayis.] 


124         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

Unluckily  the  beauty  Vcanislied,  and  he  could  not 
discover  lier.  What  would  he  not  give  to  see  her 
again  and  speak  to  her  !  Perhaps  she  might  not 
be  deaf  to  his  prayers.  But  there,  his  vexation  is 
already  forgotten.  He  is  at  the  University,  under 
the  groves  of  Academe,  and  thenceforward  his 
heart  wears  a  corselet  of  ice. 

Milton  left  Cambridge  in  1632  after  having  spent 
seven  years  there.  He  withdrew  to  his  father's, 
accompanied,  he  says,  by  the  regret  of  most  of  the 
fellows  of  his  college,  who  showed  him  much  friend- 
ship and  esteem.  He  often  returns  to  this  subject, 
stung  to  the  quick  by  the  taunts  of  his  enemies, 
who  accused  him  of  having  been  expelled  from  the 
University.  So  far  from  this,  he  says,  they  wished 
to  keep  him  there,  and  he  long  continued  in  affec- 
tionate correspondence  with  his  Cambridge  friends. 
But  let  us  follow  our  poet,  who  is  now  three-and- 
twenty  years  old.^ 

Let  us  halt  here  for  a  moment  and  endeavor  to 
put  the  separate  traits  together,  and  construct  an 
idea  of  the  poet.  Milton,  at  his  return  from  Italy, 
was  exactly  thirty  years  old.  He  was  short,  his 
height  being  below  the  middle  stature,  and   also 

1  [A  cento  from  the  above-named  sources,  part  actual  quota- 
tion, part  paraphrase,  part  summary,  follows  in  the  original.  As 
it  is  very  difficult  to  find  a  satisfactory  rendering  for  tliis  blend- 
ing of  INIilton  and  Scherer,  and  as  the  facts  about  Milton's  Horton 
period  and  his  travels  are  well  known  to  the  English  reader,  it 
seemed  simpler  to  omit  it.  —  2'rans.} 


MILTON   AND    "PARADISE   LOST''  125 

very  tMn;  but  strong,  dexterous  and  courageous. 
He  was  a   practised   fencer,    and   sword   in   hand 
feared  nobody.     Such,  at  least,  is  the  portrait  he 
drew  later  of  himself.     Tradition  adds  that  he  was 
remarkably  handsome.     He  has  also  described  his 
manner  of   life,  for  the   fury  of   his   enemies,  by 
attacking  his  person  and  his  private  life,  obliged 
him  to  enter  into  the  most  minute  details  of  refu- 
tation.    He  rose,  so  he  tells  us,  early  —  in  summer 
with  the  lark,  in  winter  with  the  bells  that  called 
men  to  work  or  prayer.     He  read  or  listened  to 
reading  till  attention  and   memory  failed.     Then 
he  betook  himself  to  exercises  suited  to  maintain 
the  health  of   the   body,  and  by  that  means  the 
strength  and  independence  of  the  mind.     We  must, 
as  I  have  said,  take  care  not  to  look  on  Milton  as 
a  gloomy  fanatic  or  an  ascetic.     At  Cambridge  he 
had  written  tender  Latin  elegies  ;  he  had,  when  in 
Italy,    no    scruple    in    rhyming    madrigals    after 
Petrarch,  and  celebrating   in   them   real   or   ficti- 
tious loves.     At  Kome,  in  the  very  city  where  he 
prided  himself  on  holding  high  the  banner  of  his 
faith,  he  had  listened  with  transport  to  the  singer 
Leonora  Baroni.    His  epitaph  on  Shakespeare,  "  My 
Shakespeare  "  as  he  calls  him,  is  well  known,  with 
its  passionate  expression  of  the  emotions  he  owed 
to  the  reading  of  this  "  dear  son  of  memory."     Nor 
was  this   all;  Milton   on   occasion   shows   himself 
quite  ready  to   put   on   one   side  deep   study  and 
serious  occupations   in  order,  with  his  friends,  to 


126         ESSAYS    UN    ENGLISH   LITEKATURE 

give  himself  up  to  "  mirth  that,  after,  no  repenting 
draws"  —  a  light  repast,  good  wine,  some  Italian 
music,  that  is  the  programme.  "  Mild  heaven,"  says 
he,  "  disapproves  the  care.  That  with  superfluous 
burden  loads  the  day.  And  when  God  sends  a  cheer- 
ful liour  refrains."  So  there  is  nothing  in  him 
repulsive  or  morose.  He  is  pure  without  too  much 
severity,  grave  without  fanaticism  :  full  of  original 
sanity,  of  gracious  strength.  He  is  a  son  of  the 
north  who  has  felt  the  Italian  influence  :  an  after- 
growth of  the  Renaissance,  but  a  growth  full  of 
strange  and  novel  flavor.^ 

IV 

Milton  returned  to  his  country  at  the  very 
moment  when  the  Monarchy  was  about  to  begin  a 
death-struggle  with  the  Parliament,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  ecclesiastical  controversies  by  which 
that  struggle  was  embittered.  He  could  have  no 
hesitation  as  to  the  side  which  he  was  to  join  :  but 
he  had  to  ask  himself  with  some  embarrassment 
what  he  was  going  to  do  now  that  the  day  of  pre- 

1  Milton  allows  his  taste  and  admiration  for  Sliakespeare  to 
appear  in  U Allegro,  published  in  1(545,  but  doubtless  written 
some  years  earlier  (See  v.  l.'>5).  The  same  poem  exhibits  him  in 
his  least  austere  light.  Our  author  makes  Joy,  daughter  of 
Bacchus  and  Venus,  mother  of  the  Graces.  He  bids  her  bring 
with  her  "  Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides  "  and  even  "  Laugh- 
ter holding  both  his  sides."  It  is  true  that  the  pleasures  he 
expects  from  Joy  and  Freedom  are  "  unreproved  pleasures."  Cf. 
Paradise  Lost,  iv.  293,  294. 


MILTON  AND    "  PAEADISE  LOST"  127 

paratory  studies  and  of  travel  was  passed,  and  that 
it  was  time  to  fix  an  object  for  his  life. 

At  any  other  time  his  choice  would  have  appeared 
easy.  He  seemed  destined  for  one  or  other  of  the 
learned  professions,  more  especially  for  the  service 
of  the  Church.  But  at  that  day  this  career  was 
closed  to  him.  "Xone  could  take  orders  without 
devoting  himself  to  slavery."  But  he  had  cherished 
dreams  dearer  still.  The  most  curious  passage  of 
the  memoirs  of  which  I  am  here  piecing  the  frag- 
ments together,  that  in  which  he  recalls  the  poetic 
aspirations  of  his  youth,  lets  us  see  what  it  cost  him 
in  effort  to  renounce  them,  and  betrays  the  hope  of 
still  some  day  paying  the  debt  of  genius  to  his 
country  and  his  God.^ 

We  may  believe  Milton  when  he  expresses  the 
regret  with  which  he  renounced  immortal  songs  for 
the  polemics  of  the  moment.  But  he  thought  he 
heard  the  call  of  the  Church  and  of  his  country. 
He  postponed  to  another  season  the  accomplishment 
of  his  poetic  mission,  and  plunged  headlong  into 
the  struggle  of  the  Parliament  against  King  Charles 
and  Archbishop  Laud.  Others  had  drawn  the 
sword  :  his  weapon  was  the  pen.  His  learning  and 
his  practice  in  writing  marked  him  out  for  the 
part   of   controversialist  :    and   he   poured   forth  a 

1  [M.  Scherer  here  translated  the  long  passage  in  the  Reasons 
of  Church  Government,  about  the  vulgar  amorists  and  para- 
sites, comparing  with  it  the  exordium  of  Canto  ix,  Paradise 
Lost.  —  Trans.l 


1:28         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

crowd  of  pamphlets  on  every  subject  which  events 
made  actual.  He  began  by  Church  questions, 
attacking  ceremonies,  the  episcopate,  tradition,  and 
striving  to  bring  the  Church  back  to  its  primitive 
simplicity.  A  few  years  later  he  married,  and,  as 
is  well  known,  was  soon  deserted  by  his  wife.  The 
cause  of  this  separation  is  not  known,  but  is  it 
rash  to  seek  it  in  the  very  character  of  the  poet? 
Serious,  living  on  the  heights,  given  up  to  long 
work  and  sublime  meditations,  he  was  likely  to 
make  a  rather  poor  husband.  Moreover,  he  had 
drawn  from  Holy  Writ  quite  Oriental  and  very 
decided  notions  on  the  inferiority  of  woman  and 
her  subjection  to  man.  At  any  rate,  the  young 
bride  did  actually  desert  her  husband's  house,  and 
did  not  return  till  two  or  three  years  later.  Then 
something  happened  to  Milton  which  has  often  been 
seen  in  similar  cases  :  his  personal  grievances  were 
raised  in  his  own  eyes  to  the  height  of  a  question 
of  public  interest,  and  he  set  himself  to  write  on 
marriage  and  divorce  as  he  had  written  before  on 
episcopacy  and  formal  worship.  It  seemed  to  him, 
as  he  explained  later,  that  men  must  begin  by 
being  free  at  home  before  being  so  in  the  market- 
place, and  that  the  vilest  of  slaveries  is  that  of  a 
man  bound  without  remedy  to  an  inferior  being.^ 

1  "  Frustra  enim  libertatem  in  comitiis-et  foro  crepat  qui  domi 
servitutem  vero  indignissimam  inferiori  etiara  servit,"  Defcnsio 
Sccunda.  As  for  Milton's  ideas  on  marriage,  see  Samso7i,  1. 
1055,  and  raracUse  Lost,  i.  G35  sq.,  vii,  539  sq.,  505  sq.  ;  but  note 


]MILTON   AXD    "  PAEADISE   LOST"  129 

The  last  debate  which.  Milton  maintained  in  his 
fifteen  years  of  polemic,  was  that  in  which  he 
engaged  with  Salmasius  on  the  subject  of  the  death 
of  Cliarles  I.  To  the  scandal  of  the  whole  of  mo- 
narchical Europe  he  was  seen  defending,  with  cold- 
blooded erudition,  the  right  of  peoples  to  punish 
tyrants.  For  the  rest,  the  style  of  all  these  writ- 
inscs  of  his  is  the  same.  The  author  unfolds  the 
treasures  of  his  learning,  heaping  up  the  testimony 
of  Scripture,  passages  from  the  fathers,  and  quota- 
tions from  the  poets,  laying  sacred  and  profane 
antiquity  alike  under  contribution,  and  subtly  dis- 
cussing the  sense  of  this  and  that  Greek  or  Hebrew 
term.  But  it  is  not  only  in  the  crudity  of  his  eru- 
dition and  in  his  religious  prejudices  that  Milton  is 
of  his  age.  He  belongs  to  it  also  by  the  personal 
tone  of  his  polemic.  Morns  and  Salmasius  had 
attacked  his  morals,  gibed  at  his  short  stature, 
made  odious  references  to  his  loss  of  sight  :  Milton 
retorts  on  them  the  money  they  have  pocketed  and 
the  servant  girls  they  have  debauched,  seasoning 
the  mess  with  coarse  epigrams,  with  vulgar  terms 
of  abuse.  Luther  and  Calvin  themselves,  experts 
as  they  were  in  insult,  had  never  done  better. 

And  yet  with  all  this  Milton,  I  must  repeat,  is  by 
no  means  a  fanatic  pure  and  simple,  like  most  of 
the  Puritans.     He  is  not,  as  they  were,  impelled  by 

at  the  same  time  vii.  5i6  sq.  for  his  deep  sense  of  feminine  seduc- 
tions. Adam  becomes  so  eloquent  on  this  subject  that  Raphael 
"contracts  his  brow,"  and  thinks  it  necessary  to  remonstrate 

UNIVERSITY  i 

0-. 


'H\^:^ 


130        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

a  baso  and  blind  desire  of  levelling.  He  is  an 
iconoclast,  but  one  with  his  wits  about  him  :  a 
liadical,  but  fully  conscious  of  the  principle  from 
which  he  starts,  and  of  the  end  for  which  he  is 
making.  The  very  worship  of  the  letter  which 
shocks  us  in  his  books,  his  Biblical  narrowness,  his 
childish  attempt  to  reform  Church  and  State  by 
dint  of  a  few  texts  laboriously  marshalled  —  all 
these  weaknesses  are  in  him  but,  as  it  were,  the 
form,  the  accidental  clothing,  of  a  most  lofty  con- 
ception of  things.  At  bottom  Milton  is  an  abso- 
lute spiritualist,  and  this  is  the  essence  of  his 
thought.  He  idealizes  and  abstracts  everything. 
/a  stranger  to  the  world,  he  does  not  trouble  himself 
about  the  distance  which  separates  his  visions  from 
reality.  He  allows  nothing  for  human  weakness  or 
for  political  necessity.  He  never  understands  that 
societies  can  only  subsist  by  a  perpetual  declension 
from  the  principles  of  right  and  truth.  He  sees  all 
things,  so  to  speak,  in  God,  and  the  earthly  State 
confounds  itself  in  his  mind  with  Jerusalem  which 
is  on  high. 

But  we  should  give  an  incomplete  idea  of  Milton's 
prose  writings  if,  after  having  spoken  of  the  tempera- 
ment of  his  mind  and  his  polemical  excesses,  we  did 
not  say  a  word  of  the  magnificence  of  his  style. 
Tor  magnificence  is  not  too  strong  a  word.  There 
are  moments  when,  shaking  the  dust  of  argument 
from  off  him,  the  poet  suddenly  bursts  forth  and 
carries  us  off  on   the  torrent  of  an  incomparable 


MILTON  AND    "PARADISE  LOST"  131 

eloquence.  It  is  not  rhetorical  phrase-making,  it  is 
poetic  enthusiasm,  a  flood  of  images  shed  over  the 
dull  and  arid  theme,  a  wing-stroke  which  sweeps  us 
high  above  peddling  controversy.  The  polemical 
writings  of  Milton  are  full  of  such  beauties.  The 
prayer  which  ends  the  "  Treatise  of  Keformation  in 
England,"  the  encomium  on  zeal  in  the  "Apology 
for  Smectymnuus,"  the  portrait  of  Cromwell  in  the 
"  Second  Defence  of  the  English  People,"  and,  lastly, 
the  whole  treatise  on  the  liberty  of  the  press,  are 
counted  among  the  most  memorable  pages  of  English 
literature  and  among  the  most  characteristic  exam- 
ples of  the  genius  of  Milton.^  The  dryest  of  Milton's 
writings  are  thus  constantly  illuminated  with  flashes 
of  poetry. 

/  And  so  we  come  back  to  our  conclusion,  that  Mil- 
ton was  born  a  poet,  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  poets. 
He  had  long  before  written  some  short  pieces  which 
would  have  been  enough  to  make  him  immortal, 
"  L  'Allegro  "  for  instance,  and  "  II  Fenseroso."  He 
was  now  approaching  a  green  old  age  ;  but  he  pre- 
served his  inner  fire  and  a  kind  of  heroic  and  mag- 
nifical  spirit,  which  breaks  out  in  the  midst  of  the 
wretchedest  wranglings.  Yet  none  the  less  he  is  a 
polemic  and  a  theologian  in  his  heart.  Some  years 
ago  there  was  discovered  a  stout  treatise  on  "  Chris- 
tian Doctrine,"  on  which  he  worked  throughout 
his  life  ;  and  it  is  not  certain  that  this  was  not  his 

1  [M.  Sclierer  here  gives  the  immortal  "  mewing  her  mighty 
youth  "  passage  from  the  Areopar/itica.  —  Trans.] 


132        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

favorite  work.  For  he  was  before  all  things  a 
Protestant  scholastic.  He  rejoices  in  the  pet  dog- 
mas of  Puritanism,  in  Original  Sin,  Predestination, 
Free  Will.  Not  that  he  does  not  carry  even  into 
this  region  a  kind  of  natural  independence.  Thus, 
he  dared  to  follow  St.  Paul  and  Arius  in  making 
Christ  a  sort  of  secondary  or  intermediary  God,  and 
he  was  not  afraid  to  push  his  views  on  divorce  to 
the  point  of  apologizing  for  polygamy.  But  his 
theology  is  none  the  less  that  of  the  time  —  bound 
to  the  letter  of  the  sacred  writings,  without  grandeur, 
without  horizons,  without  philosophy.  He  never 
quits  the  written  word  ;  and  he  will  cut  the  knot  of 
the  most  exalted  problems  by  the  authority  of  a 
single  obscure  or  isolated  x^assage.  In  short,  Milton 
is  a  great  poet,  doubled  with  a  Saumaise,  or  a  Grotius  ; 
a  genius,  nourished  on  the  marrow  of  lions,  on 
Homer,  Isaiah,  Virgil,  Dante,  but  also,  like  the  ser- 
pent in  Eden,  chewing  the  dust  of  dull  polemic.  He 
is  a  doctor,  a  preacher,  a  pedagogue,  and  when  the 
day  comes  for  him  to  be  able  at  last  to  realize  the 
dreams  of  his  youth,  and  endow  his  country  with 
an  epic,  he  will  construct  it  of  two  matters,  of  gold 
and  of  clay,  of  sublimity  and  of  scholasticism,  and 
will  leave  us  a  poem  which  is  at  once  the  most 
extraordinary  and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
intolerable  in  existence. 


MILTON   AND    '-PAPvADlSE   LOST"  133 


I  shall  not  follow  the  life  of  Milton  any  further. 
It  grew  more  and  more  sombre  with  age  and  cir- 
cumstance, and  everything  seemed  to  combine  to 
overwhelm  that  mighty  heart.  He  lost  his  sight 
in  1651  as  a  consequence  of  the  obstinate  labor 
which  his  "Defence  of  the  English  People"  cost 
him.  The  doctors  had  warned  him  of  the  conse- 
quences in  vain.  "Their  warnings,"  he  says, 
"caused  me  neither  fear  nor  hesitation.  Urged 
by  the  heavenly  Counsellor  Who  dwells  in  con- 
science, I  would  have  shut  my  ears  to  .Esculapius 
himself  speaking  in  his  Epidaurian  temple."  A 
year  afterwards,  Milton's  wife  died.  He  married 
twice  again  :  but  he  had  by  his  first  marriage  three 
daughters,  who  did  not  get  on  well  with  their  step- 
mothers, and  disturbed  the  household  by  their 
domestic  dissensions.  And  we  may  suppose  that 
the  couj)  cVétat  by  which  Cromwell  substituted  the 
Protectorate  for  the  government  of  Parliament 
could  not  but  sadden  the  soul  of  Milton.  It  was 
the  first  blow  dealt  to  the  republican  ideal  which  he 
had  cherished.  Alas  !  his  generous  dreams  were  to 
be  still  more  rudely  dissipated,  A  coiqf  cVétat  can 
only  establish  a  government  by  setting  this  govern- 
ment at  variance  with  its  own  first  principle:  it 
can  only  form  a  regular  civil  order  by  condemning 
the  violence  which  gave  its  own  success.  What  is 
certain  is  that  Cromwell's  son  ruled  but  a  moment 


134         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LLTEUATUKE 

after  his  fatlier.  At  the  date  of  the  Restoration 
JMiltou  was  fifty-two,  and  it  is  reasonably  enough 
supposed  that  about  that  time  he  began  tlie  com- 
position of  the  poem  which  he  had  projected 
twenty  years  earlier.  His  friends  had  disappeared, 
his  dreams  had  vanished,  his  sight  was  quenched, 
old  age  made  itself  felt.  But  he  had  kept  the 
faith  ;  and,  turning  his  eyes  towards  the  heavenly 
light,  he  dictated  songs  which  he  knew  were  fated 
to  be  immortal.^ 

Such  was  Milton  ;  himself  a  poem,  to  use  his  own 
expression.  Grave,  serene,  wholly  given  up  to  the 
contemplation  of  heavenly  things,  slowly  maturing 
the  work  of  his  life,  isolated  in  his  generation  by 
the  very  force  of  his  genius.  His  soul,  as  Words- 
worth has  said  in  a  fine  sonnet,  was  "like  a  star, 
and  dwelt  apart." 

VI 

"  Paradise  Lost  "  is  a  work  of  the  Eenaissance, 
full  of  imitation  of  the  ancients.  The  plan  is  mod- 
elled upon  the  consecrated  patterns,  especially  on 
that  of  the  "^neid."  There  is  an  exposition, 
there  is  an  invocation  ;  after  which  the  author 
plunges  in  médias  res.  Satan  and  his  accomplices 
are  discovered  stranded  on  the  floor  of  hell, 
like  iEneas  on  the  coast  of  Carthage.  At  this 
point  the  action  begins.     It  is  and  will  be  very 

1  Read  the  Introductions  to  Bks.  iii.  and  iv.  of  Paradise  Lost, 


MILTON   AND    "  PAEADISE   LOST"  135 

simple  throughout.  As  ^neas  triumphs  over 
Turnus,  so  Satan  will  ruin  humanity  in  the  person 
of  our  first  parents.  This  unity  of  action  is 
demanded  by  the  rules  ;  but  it  is  necessary,  on  the 
other  hand,  that  the  poet  should  tell  us  what  has 
gone  before,  and  what  will  come  after,  otherwise 
there  would  not  be  material  enough.  So  resource 
is  had  to  narratives.  ^Eneas  tells  Dido  of  the 
Fall  of  Troy  :  Eaphael  narrates  to  Adam  the 
revolt  of  the  angels  and  the  creation  of  the  world. 
Thus  we  are  posted  up  as  to  the  past:  but  the 
future  remains.  The  poet  cannot  leave  us  with 
the  death  of  Turnus  or  the  Fall  of  the  first  human 
beings,  because  the  true  interest  of  the  two  poems 
lies  in  the  relations  of  ^neas  with  the  destinies  of 
the  Eoman  people  and  in  the  relations  of  Adam's 
sin  with  the  lot  of  all  mankind.  Patience  !  a  new 
device  will  get  us  out  of  the  difficulty,  ^neas 
descends  to  Hades,  and  there  finds  Anchises,  who 
shows  him  the  procession  of  his  posterity.  The 
archangel  Michael  leads  Adam  to  a  hill  and 
delivers  a  complete  course  of  lectures  to  him  on 
sacred  history,  from  the  death  of  Abel  to  the 
coming  of  Christ,  and  even  to  the  Last  Judgment. 
Such  is  the  plan  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  :  there  is 
nothing  more  regular  or  more  classical.  We  recog- 
nize the  superstitions  of  the  Kenaissance  in  this 
faithfulness  to  models.  But  the  result  is  that 
Milton's  poem  presents  a  sort  of  tertiary  formation, 
the  copy  of  a  copy.     It  is  to  the  Latin  epics  what 


136         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

these  are  to  Homer.  We  shall  see  presently  what 
IMilton  lias  succeeded  in  throwing  into  the  tradi- 
tional mould  ;  but  as  for  the  form  of  his  poem  he 
did  not  create  it  for  himself,  he  received  it.  It  is 
a  legacy  of  antiquity. 

VII 

If  the  form  of  "  Paradise  Lost  "  was  supplied  by 
the  Kenaissance  the  substance  was  furnished  by 
Puritanism.  "Paradise  Lost"  is  an  epic,  but  it  is 
a  theological  epic,  and  the  theology  of  the  poem  is 
made  up  of  the  favorite  dogmas  of  the  Puritans  — 
the  Pall,  Justification,  the  sovereign  laws  of  God. 
Moreover,  Milton  makes  no  secret  of  the  fact  that 
he  is  defending  a  thesis  :  his  end,  he  says  in  the 
first  lines,  is  to  "assert  eternal  providence  And 
justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man." 

There  are,  therefore,  in  "Paradise  Lost"  two 
things  which  must  be  kept  distinct  :  an  epic  poem 
and  a  theodicy.  Unluckily,  these  two  elements  — 
answering  to  the  two  men  of  which  Milton  was  him- 
self made  up,  and  to  the  two  tendencies  which  his 
age  obeyed  —  these  two  elements,  I  say,  were  incap- 
able of  thorough  fusion.  Nay,  they  are  at  com- 
plete variance,  and  from  their  juxtaposition  there 
results  an  undertone  of  contradiction  which  runs 
through  the  whole  Avork,  affects  its  solidity,  and 
endangers  its  value.  It  would  be  vain  to  plead  the 
example  of  the  classical  epic.     The  Gods  no  doubt 


MILTOX   AND    "PARADISE   LOST"  137 

hold  a  great  place  both  in  the  "Iliad"  and  the 
"^ueid"  ;  but  Christianity  is  in  this  respect  very 
differently  situated  from  Paganism.  Christianity 
is  a  religion  ^Yhich  has  been  formally  -redacted" 
and  settled  ;  and  it  is  impossible,  without  doing  it 
violence,  to  add  anything  to  it  or  subtract  anything 
from  it.  Moreover,  Chiistianity  is  a  religion  seri- 
ous in  itself  and  insisting  upon  being  taken  seri- 
ously, devoted  to  ideas  the  gravest,  not  to  say  the 
saddest,  that  imagination  can  form  :  those  of  sin, 
redemption,  self-denial,  good  works  —  all  of  them 
things  which,  as  Boileau  says,  are  not  fitted  for 
being  smartened  up  by  ornament. 

L'évangile  à  l'esprit  n'offre  de  tous  côtés 
Que  pénitence  à  faire  et  tourments  mérités, 
Et  de  vos  fictions  le  mélange  coupable 
Même  à  ses  vérités  donne  l'air  de  la  fable.i 

But  this  is  not  all.  Christianity  is  a  religion  of 
dogma:  in  place  of  the  fantastic  and  intangible 
myths  of  which  the  Aryan  religions  were  made  up, 
it  has  abstruse  distinctions,  paradoxical  mysteries, 
subtle  teachings.  In  short,  it  amounts  to  a  meta- 
physic,  or,  to  return  to  the  expression  I  used  at  first, 
a  theology.  And  theology  has  never  had  the  repu- 
tation of  being  favorable  to  poetry.  Lastly,  and  as 
a   climax,  this  theology  is  still   alive.     It  is    for 

1  [In  Gospel  truth  nought's  by  the  mind  discerned 
But  penauce  due  and  punishments  well-earned  ; 
And  when  your  art  a  blameful  blend  supplies 
You  give  its  very  truths  the  air  of  lies.  —  Trcms.] 


138        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITEKATUKE 

thousands  an  object  of  faith  and  hope  :  it  is  not 
"  to  let,"  if  I  may  so  speak,  there  is  no  vacancy  in 
it  ;  and  the  poet  who  carries  into  it  the  creations  of 
his  fantasy  has  all  the  appearance  of  committing 
sacrilege. 

This,  as  it  is,  looks  ill  for  Milton's  poem  ;  but  we 
have  not  yet  said  all.     "  Paradise  Lost  "  is  not  only 
a  theological  poem  —  two  words  which  cry  out  at 
linding  themselves  united  —  but  it  is  at  the  same 
time  a  commentary  on  texts   of   Scripture.     The 
author  has  chosen  for  his  subject  the  first  chapters 
of  Genesis,  that  is  to  say  a  story,  which  the  stout- 
est or  the  simplest   faith   hesitates  to  take  quite 
literally,  a  story  in  which  serpents  are  heard  speak- 
inir,  and  the  ruin  of  the  human  race  is  seen  to  be 
bound  up  with  a  fault  merely  childish  in  appear- 
ance.    In  fixing   on   such   a   subject,  Milton   was 
obliged  to  treat  the  whole  story  as  a  literal  and 
authentic  history  ;  and,  worse  still,  to  take  a  side 
on  the  questions  which  it  starts.     Now,  these  ques- 
tions are  the  very  thorniest  in  theology  :  and  so  it 
comes  about  that  Milton,  who  intended  to  instruct 
us,  merely  launches    us  on   a    sea   of    difficulties. 
What  are  we  to  understand  by  the  Son  of  the  Most 
High,  who,  one  fine  day,  is  begotten  and  raised  to 
the  rank  of  viceroy  of  creation  ?     How  are  we  to 
comprehend  an  angel  who  enters  on  a  conflict  with 
God,  that  is  to  say,  with  a  being  whom  he  knows 
to  be  omnipotent  ?     What  kind  of  innocence  is  it 
which  does  not  prevent  a  man  from  eating  forbidden 


JVHLTON   AND    "PARADISE   LOST  "  139 

fruit  ?  How,  again,  can  this  fault  extend  its  effects 
to  ourselves  ?  By  what  effort  of  imagination  or  of 
faith  can  we  regard  the  history  of  Adam  as  part  of 
our  own  history,  and  acknowledge  solidarity  with 
his  crime  in  ourselves  ?  And  if  Milton  does  not 
succeed  in  arousing  this  feeling  in  us,  what  becomes 
of  his  poem  ?  What  is  its  value,  what  its  interest  ? 
It  becomes  equally  impossible  to  take  it  seriously 
as  a  profession  of  faith  (since  this  faith  escapes  us) 
and  even  to  regard  it  as  the  poetical  expression  of 
a  theodicy  which  is  out  of  date,  because  that  the- 
odicy could  only  become  poetic  on  the  terms  of  being 
intelligible. 

"Paradise  Lost"  has  shared  the  fate  of  its  hero, 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  devil.  The  idea  of  Satan  is 
a  contradictory  idea  :  for  it  is  contradictory  to  know 
God  and  yet  attempt  rivalry  with  Him.  Accord- 
ingly, the  flourishing  time  of  belief  in  the  devil  was 
a  time  of  logical  impotence.  The  devil  at  this  time 
of  day  has  been  riddled  through  and  through,  he  has 
become  a  comic  character,  he  supplies  us  with  our 
little  jokes. ^  As  for  ''' Paradise  Lost"  it  lives  still, 
but  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  its  fundamental 
conceptions  have  become  strange  to  us,  and  that  if 
the  Avork  survives,  it  is  in  spite  of  the  subject  which 
it  celebrates. 

1  [There  is,  however,  a  proverb  in  M.  Scherer's  language, 
Rira  bien  qui  rira  le  dernier  ;  and  one  may  also  think  of  Sandy 
Mackaye's  very  pregnant  and  luminous  protest  against  the  pre- 
mature interment  of  this  personage. —  Trans.] 


140         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

VIII 

Nor  is  this  the  only  trick  which  Milton's  theology- 
has  played  upon  his  poetry.  The  marvellous  is  an 
essential  part  of  classical  poetry,  and  this  is  intel- 
ligible enough.  In  a  certain  sense  Paganism  is  more 
religious  than  Christianity,  and  associates  the  Deity 
with  every  act  of  human  life  more  naturally  and 
more  of  necessity.  From  the  very  fact  that  it  has 
Gods  for  everything  —  for  the  domestic  hearth,  for 
love,  for  marriage,  for  fighting  —  there  is  not  a 
circumstance  in  which  these  Gods  have  not  a  locus 
standi.  Much  more  is  this  so  when  the  subject  is  a 
hero  whose  valor  is  inconceivable  without  divine 
protection,  or  a  great  historical  event,  whereof  the 
decrees  of  Zeus  supply  the  sovereign  explanation. 
It  is  by  no  means  the  same  with  the  moderns,  in 
whom  the  much  more  exalted,  but  much  vaguer  idea 
of  divine  Providence  has  replaced  the  crowd  of 
special  deities.  If  there  is  in  this  a  metaphysical 
progress,  there  is  at  the  same  time  a  poetical  impov- 
erishment. It  is  not  that  Christianity  also  has  not 
produced  its  own  mythology  :  we  have  a  whole 
Catholic  Olympus,  pretty  well  populated.  But  the 
attributes  are  uncertain,  the  parts  ill  distributed: 
and,  in  spite  of  everything,  there  clings  to  these  crea- 
tions a  sort  of  inborn  spiritualism,  which  is  proof 
against  the  materialism  of  popular  beliefs.  Chris- 
tianity, I  have  said,  is  a  religion  wanting  in  duc- 
tility.    Since  it  damns  those  who  do  not  believe  it, 


MILTOK   A2sl)   "PARADISE   LOST"  141 

it  perceives  the  necessity  of  offering  tliem  clearly 
defined  doctrines.  Everything  in  it  is  more  or  less 
settled  and  agreed  upon.  Imagination,  therefore, 
can  only  assign  very  narrow  limits,  or,  so  to  say,  a 
circle  drawn  beforehand,  to  the  utterances  of  God 
or  the  actions  of  angels.  Hence  the  awkwardness 
of  poets  who  have  tried  to  draw  from  the  Christian 
theology  the  marvels  of  which  they  had  need.  They 
satisfy  the  demands  neither  of  piety  nor  of  poetry. 
They  are  hampered  by  the  fear  of  going  too  far  ; 
and,  however  timid  they  show  themselves,  they 
still  have  an  air  of  temerity.  The  ''  Gerusalemme 
Liberata,"  the  "Henriade,"  the  '^  Messiade,''  "Les 
Martyrs,"  show  the  faults  of  the  kind  x^alpably. 
Dante  alone  escapes,  because  with  admirable  tact 
or,  if  anyone  pleases,  art,  he  has  brought  into  play 
only  the  sinners  and  the  saved. 

Yet  Milton  has  been  more  fortunate  than  most  of 
the  epic  poets  of  the  Christian  period.  Indeed,  there 
was  no  necessity  for  him  to  make  a  shift  to  supply 
his  epic  with  the  element  of  the  marvellous,  since 
the  whole  was  already  placed  straight  off  in  the 
region  of  the  supernatural.  God  and  his  Son,  the 
devils  and  the  angels,  were  not  kept  in  the  back- 
ground and  reserved  for  the  denouement.  They 
themselves  filled  the  principal  parts.  Even  our 
first  parents,  placed  as  they  were  in  the  garden  of 
Eden  and  in  a  state  of  innocence,  shared  in  a  kind 
of  superior  existence.  Thus  there  was  from  the 
first  no  need  to  introduce  the  divinity  arbitrarily. 


142        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

The  author  of  ^^  Paradise  Lost  "  had  but  to  remain 
within  the  conditions  of  his  subject  and  to  extend 
a  little  the  outlines  of  the  sacred  history. 

l)Ut  if  jNIilton  avoided  factitious  marvels  it  was 
at  the  cost  of  inconvenience  elsewhere,  of  baldness 
in  story,  of  poverty  in  ethical  quality.  Not  only  is 
the  reader  lifted  into  the  sphere  of  religious  abstrac- 
tions, where  the  eye  of  man  cannot  see  or  his  breast 
draw  breath  ;  but  the  whole  action  and  actors  alike 
are  too  destitute  of  complexity.  In  strictness  there 
is  but  one  personage  in  possession  of  the  stage  — 
God  the  Father  ;  since  God  cannot  show  Himself 
without  eclipsing  all  the  rest,  nor  speak  without 
His  will  being  done.  The  Son  is  but  a  double  of 
the  Father.  The  angels  and  archangels  are  but 
his  messengers  ;  nay,  they  are  even  less  —  personi- 
fications of  his  decrees,  supers  in  a  drama  which 
would  have  gone  on  equally  well  without  them. 

Milton  did  not  yield  without  a  struggle  to  the 
conditions  of  his  chosen  subject.  He  tried  to 
evade  them,  and  only  made  the  defect  more  sen- 
sible. The  long  discourses  with  which  he  fills  the 
gaps  between  the  action  are  only  sermons,  and  do 
but  make  evident  the  absence  of  dramatic  matter. 
Then,  since  after  all  some  sort  of  action,  some  sort 
of  contest  was  necessary,  the  poet  had  recourse  to 
the  revolt  of  the  angels.  But,  unluckily,  the  funda- 
mental defects  of  the  subject  were  such  that  this 
expedient  turned  in  a  fashion  against  him.  What 
the  drama  gains  in  movement,  it  loses  in  verisimili- 


MILTON  AXD   "  PAEADISE  LOST"  143 

tude.  We  see  a  battle,  but  we  cannot  take  either 
the  fight  or  the  fighters  seriously.  A  God  who  can 
be  resisted  is  not  a  God.  A  struggle  with  Omnip- 
otence is  not  only  rash,  but  silly.  Belial  saw  that 
very  well  when,  in  the  Infernal  Council,  he  rejected 
the  idea  of  a  contest,  either  open  or  concealed,  with 
Him  who  is  all-seeing  and  all-powerful.  Xor  can 
one,  indeed,  comprehend  how  his  colleagues  did 
not  at  once  give  way  to  so  self-evident  a  considera- 
tion. But,  I  repeat,  the  poem  only  became  possible 
at  the  cost  of  this  impossibility  ;  and  so  Milton 
bravely  made  up  his  mind  to  it.  He  urged  to  the 
last,  he  accepted,  even  in  its  uttermost  conse- 
quences, the  most  inadmissible  of  fictions.  He  pre- 
sents to  us  Jehovah  anxious  for  His  omnipotence, 
afraid  of  seeing  His  position  turned,  His  palace 
surprised.  His  throne  usurped.^  He  sketches  for 
us  angels  throwing  mountains,  and  firing  cannon, 
at  each  other's  heads.  He  shows  us  victory  evenly 
balanced  till  the  Son  arrives  armed  with  thunder 
and  mounted  on  a  car  with  four  cherubs  harnessed 
to  it. 

We  have  still  to  inquire  whether  Milton  had  an 
epic  imagination,  or  whether  his  subject  did  not  do 
him  good  service  by  dispensing  him  from  drawing 

1  Paradise  Lost,  v.  719,  et  seq.  In  fact  and  in  fine  Satan  has 
won  something,  and  has  succeeded.  His  own  lot  is  made  no 
worse,  and,  on  tl)e  otlier  liand,  a  great  many  men  will  be  damned, 
X.  375.  It  is  useless,  therefore,  to  represent  Evil  as  merely  pass- 
ing, or  even  as  a  means  to  good,  x.  629. 


V- 


144        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

more  largely  on  his  own  resources.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  he  scarcely  ever  strays  from  this  subject 
without  falling  into  burlesque.  His  prince  of  the 
rebel  angels,  who  changes  himself  into  a  toad  and  a 
cormorant;  his  demons,  who  become  dwarfs  in 
order  to  be  less  crowded  in  their  Parliament  house  ; 
the  punishment  inflicted  on  them,  which  consists  of 
being  changed  once  a  j'^ear  into  serpents  ;  the  Para- 
dise of  Fools  ;  the  famous,  but  extravagant  allegory 
of  Sin  and  Death  —  all  these  fictions  give  us  but  a 
feeble  notion  of  Milton's  inventive  genius,  and 
make  it  permissible  to  think  that  he  would  not 
have  succeeded  in  a  subject  where  he  had  to  create 
his  heroes  and  imagine  his  situations. 

IX 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I  do  not  reproach 
Milton,  because,  with  his  sixteenth  century  Cal- 
vinism, he  is  found  out  of  harmony  with  nineteenth 
century  thought.  I  care  very  little  about  his  believ- 
ing in  witches  and  in  astrology.  Where  would 
Homer  be,  where  Dante,  if,  refusing  to  place  our- 
selves at  their  point  of  view,  we  judged  them  from 
the  level  of  our  modern  criticism  ?  Not  a  single 
work  of  art  could  support  such  a  trial.  But  the 
position  of  Milton  is  not  exactly  this.  Milton 
wants  to  prove  something,  he  is  sustaining  a  thesis, 
he  means  to  do  the  work  of  a  theologian  as  well  as 
of   a   poet.     In  a   word,  whether  intentionally  or 


MILTON   AND    "  PAKADISE   LOST"  145 

merely  as  a  fact,  ''Paradise  Lost"  is  a  didactic 
work,  aud,  as  a  consequence,  its  form  cannot  be 
separated  from  its  matter.  Xow,  it  so  happens  . 
that  the  idea  of  the  poem  does  not  bear  exami- 
nation ;  that  its  explanation  of  the  problem  of  evil 
verges  on  the  burlesque  ;  that  the  characters  of  its 
heroes,  Jehovah  and  Satan,  are  incoherent  ;  that  the 
fate  of  Adam  touches  us  little;  and  fmally,  that 
the  action  passes  in  regions  where  the  interests  and 
the  passions  of  our  common  humanity  have  noth-  I 
ing  to  do.  I  have  already  pointed  out  this  contra- 
diction in  Milton's  epic.  The  story  on  which  it 
rests  has  neither  meaning  nor  value  unless  it 
retains  its  dogmatic  import,  and  at  the  same  time 
it  cannot  retain  this  import  without  falling  into 
theology,  that  is  to  sa}^,  into  a  domain  foreign  to 
art.  The  subject  of  the  poem  is  nothing  unless  it 
is  real,  unless  it  touches  ns  as  the  secret  of  our 
destinies  ;  and  the  more  the  poet  tries  to  grasp  this 
reality  the  more  it  escapes  him. 

So  intangible  in  character  are  these  conceptions, 
that  Milton  knew  not  even  where  to  pitch  the 
scene  of  his  drama.  He  is  obliged  to  forge  a  sys- 
tem of  the  world  on  purpose,  a  system  in  which 
he  himself  only  half  believes.  He  is  hampered  by 
the  science  of  his  time.  Men  are  no  longer  in  the 
fourteenth  century,  when  Dante  could  image  hell 
as  a  great  hole  burrowing  beneath  the  surface  of 
our  globe.  Copernicus  and  Galileo  have  inter- 
vened.    So  the  cosmology  of  the  Scriptures  must 


146         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

be  modified  and  accommodated  to  the  enlightenment 
of  the  day.  There  is  nothing  more  curious  than  to 
read  "  I'aradise  Lost  "  from  this  point  of  view,  and 
to  note  the  modifications  imposed  by  science  on 
tradition.  Milton  regards  space  as  infinite,  but 
divided  into  two  regions,  that  of  light  or  creation, 
and  that  of  darkness  or  of  chaos.  On  earth,  in  the 
country  of  Eden,  is  the  Earthly  Paradise,  communi- 
cating by  a  staircase  with  the  abode  of  the  ^lost 
High.  Chaos  surrounds  the  whole  of  this  created 
world,  but  on  the  edge  of  chaos,  in  the  twilight, 
is  the  Limbo  of  vanity,  and  beyond  chaos,  in  the 
depths  of  uncreated  space,  is  found  Hell,  with  a 
gate  and  a  bridge  constructed  by  Sin  and  Death, 
over  which  is  the  road  from  earth  to  the  abyss.^ 

A  vague  conception,  half  literal,  half  symbolic, 
whereof  the  author  had  need  as  a  scene  for  his  per- 
sonages, but  in  which  he  himself  has  no  entire 
confidence  —  a  striking  example  of  the  kind  of 
antinomy  with  which  I  charge  the  whole  poem,  of 
the  combined  necessity,  and  impossibility  of  taking 
things  at  the  foot  of  the  letter. 

X 

Let  us  sum  up.  "Paradise  Lost"  is  an  unreal 
poem,  a  grotesque  poem,  a  tiresome  poem.     There 

1  Milton  introduced  not  merely  his  cosmology  but  also  his 
politics  into  his  poem.  See  on  republicanism  and  tyranny,  xii. 
64-101. 


MILTON   AND   "PARADISE   LOST"  147 

is  not  one  reader  in  a  hundred  who  can  read  Books 
Xine  and  Ten  without  a  smile,  or  Books  Eleven  and 
Twelve  without  a  yawn.     The  thing  does  not  hold 
together  :  it  is  a  pyramid  balanced  on  its  apex,  the 
most  terrible  of  problems  solved  by  the  most  child- 
ish of  means.     And  yet  "  Paradise  Lost  "  is  immor- 
tal.    It  lives  by  virtue  of  some  episodes  which  will 
be  for  ever  famous.     In  contrast  with  Dante,  who 
must  be  read  as  a  vrhole  if  we  wish  really  to  grasp 
his  beauties,  Milton  ought  not  to  be  read  except  in       'X 
fragments  ;  but  these  fragments  form  a  part  of  the 
poetic  patrimony  of  the  human  race.     The  invoca- 
tion to  Light,  the  character  of  Eve,  the  description 
of  the   earthly   Paradise,  of  the   morning   of  the 
world,  of  its  first  love,  are  all  masterpieces.     The 
•discourses  of  the  Prince  of  Hell  are  incomparably 
eloquent.     Lord   Brougham   used  to  cite  them  as 
worthy  to   be   set  side   by  side  with  the  greatest 
models    of   antiquity,  and   another   orator   of   our 
time,  Mr.  Bright,  is  said  to  be  a  constant   reader 
of  Milton.     '•  Paradise  Lost  "  is,  moreover,  strewn 
with  incomparable  lines.     The  poetry  of  Milton  is 
the  very  essence  of  poetry.     The  author  seems  to 
think  but  in  images,  and  these  images  are  grand  and 
proud  as  his  own  soul  —  a  marvellous  mingling  of 
the  sublime  and  the  picturesque.     Every  word  of 
his  vocabulary  of   expression   is   a   discovery  and 
unique.     ^' Darkness  visible  "  is  well  kno^Ti.     If  he 
would  paint  night  he  shows  us  the  fairies  dancing 
by  the  woodside  : 


148         ESSAYS   ON   KNGLISII   LITERATURE 

while  overhead  the  moon 
Sits  arbitress,  and  nearer  to  the  earth 
Wheels  her  pale  course. 

The  sun  shines  on  the  expanse  of  the  deluge  waters 
and  begins  to  evaporate  them  : 

And  the  clear  sun  on  his  wide  watery  glass 
Gaz'd  hot,  and  of  the  fresh  wave  largely  drew, 
As  after  thirst. 

Peace  follows  fighting  : 

The  brazen  throat  of  war  had  ceased  to  roar. 

The  chaste  happiness  of  the  wedded  pair  is  drawn 
in  a  word  : 

Imparadised  in  one  another's  arras. 

Verses  of  this  kind,  always  as  exact  as  they  are 
beautiful,  are  innumerable  in  Milton,  and  one  is 
almost  ashamed  to  cite  them,  so  capricious  does 
choice  seem  in  the  midst  of  such  riches. 

Besides,  all  is  not  said  when  some  verses  of 
Milton  have  been  quoted.  He  has  not  only  imagery 
and  vocabulary,  but  the  period,  the  great  musical 
phrase,  a  little  long,  a  little  loaded  with  ornament 
and  convolved  with  inversions,  but  swaying  all  with 
it  in  its  superb  undulation.  After  all,  and  above 
all,  he  has  an  indefinable  serenity  and  victorious- 
ness,  a  sustained  equality,  an  indomitable  power; 
one  might  almost  say  that  he  wraps  us  in  the  skirt 


MILTON   AND    "PARADISE   LOST  "  149 

of  his  robe  and  wafts  us  with,  him  to  the  eternal 
regions  where  he  himself  dwells.^ 
November  1868. 

1  Miltou  himself  has  given  the  rule  of  poetry.  According  to 
him,  it  must  be  "  simple,  sensuous,  and  impassioned,"  which 
comes  to  the  three  conditions  of  simplicity,  fulness  of  imagery, 
and  movement. 


VIII 

LAURENCE  STERNE,i  OR  THE   HUMORIST 


The  name  of  Sterne  suggests  not  merely  the 
memory  of  a  talent,  but  also  the  idea  of  a  class  : 
Sterne  is  the  representative  of  something  definite. 
Now,  it  is  this  representative  value  which  in  litera- 
ture constitutes  fame.  The  merits  of  Sterne  may 
be  discussed  as  much  as  anyone  likes,  but  he  has  a 
substantive  existence  :  he  is  there,  with  his  own 
character,  and  with  a  certain  rank  and  prestige  as 
a  founder. 

Everything  about  him  is  odd  —  his  life,  his  per- 
sonality, his  work.  He  was  born  in  Ireland,  of  an 
Irish  mother,  and,  as  far  as  concerns  blood,  the 
Englishman  in  him  is  crossed  with  another  race,  a 
careless  race,  and  a  light  one.  His  father  was  merely 
an  ensign,  had  gone  through  the  war  in  Flanders, 
and  when  peace  was  made  carried  his  wife  and  his 
children  from  garrison  to  garrison.  He  died  from 
the  results  of  a  duel.  Having  picked  a  quarrel 
with  a  certain  Captain  Philips,  the  fight  came  off 
at  once  in  the  room  where  they  were,  and  a  story 


^Laurence  Sterne:  his  Person  and  his  Writings.    By  Paul 
Stapfer,    1870. 
150 


LAURENCE   STERNE,   OR  THE   HUMORIST      151 

is  told  on  the  subject.  The  adversaries  had  en- 
gaged so  furiously  that  Philips's  sword,  piercing 
Roger  Sterne's  body,  actually  stuck  in  the  wall. 
Thus  pinned  to  it,  the  luckless  wounded  man  lost 
neither  his  presence  of  mind  nor  even  a  certain 
humorous  pleasantry  ;  for  he  begged  his  conqueror 
to  be  so  kind  as  to  wipe  the  point  of  his  sword  and 
take  the  plaster  off  before  drawing  it  out  of  his 
body. 

Young  Sterne  had  been  put  to  school  in  York- 
shire at  eleven  years  old,  and  after  his  father's 
death  he  was  taken  charge  of  by  a  relation,  who 
sent  him  to  finish  his  studies  at  the  University  of 
Cambridge.  As  soon  as  he  had  graduated,  he  was 
provided  with  a  benefice  ;  for  his  uncle,  the  arch- 
de^icon,  an  uncle  well  to  pass  in  the  world,  and 
able  to  serve  his  nephew  if  his  nephew  would 
let  him,  had  destined  him  for  the  church.  Once 
provided  for,  Sterne  lost  no  time  in  marrying,  fall- 
ing in  love,  like  a  sentimental  person  as  he  was, 
with  a  girl  in  the  neighborhood,  and  so  finding 
himself  tied  for  life  to  an  insignificant  and  un- 
attractive woman.  Let  us  run  over  these  facts,  for 
we  have  already  got  the  whole  Sterne  before  us  : 
middle-class  extraction  ;  garrison  memories  ;  means, 
those  of  a  fairly  well-off  man  of  letters  ;  a  rather 
narrow  domestic  circle  ;  the  career  of  a  country 
parson.  We  ought  to  add  the  neighborship  of 
Hall  Stevenson,  a  college  friend,  at  whose  house 
Sterne  met  very  lively,  not  to  say  very  unreverend, 


152        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

companions,  with,  a  little  later,  some  travels  in 
France  and  Italy  ;  and  we  shall  have  almost  all  the 
elements  of  "  Tristram  Shandy  "  and  the  "  Senti- 
mental Journey  "  before  us.  M.  Montegut  has 
very  neatly  analyzed  these  influences  in  his  study 
on  Sterne  :  —  "  The  best  passages  of  his  story, 
its  most  ingenious  episodes,  its  most  sympathetic 
personages,  are  due  to  these  reminiscences  and 
emotions  of  childhood.  It  was  in  the  life  of  the 
regiment,  by  the  side  of  his  father  and  his  father's 
comrades,  that  he  succeeded  in  securing  those  sin- 
gular and  touching  growths  of  honor  and  humanity 
which  the  military  career  more  than  any  other 
fosters  in  souls  well  born." 

And  again  :  —  "At  least  a  good  half  of  ^Tristram 
Shandy  '  is  incomprehensible,  unless  it  is  con- 
sidered as  the  direct  chronicle  of  an  old  English 
-^  family  of  the  upper  middle  class,  concerned  for 
some  generations  with  the  political  disputes  of  the 
country,  and  with  sufficient  experience  of  life  to 
have  more  than  once  known  the  vicissitudes  of 
fortune.  Old  family  stories  handed  down  from 
father  to  son,  relics  pathetic  or  comical,  old  receipts 
for  the  cure  of  disease,  treasured  scraps  of  paper 
3'ellowed  by  time,  quaint  and  original  opinions 
founded  on  some  immemorial  adventure  or  some 
distant  experience  —  all  these  oddities  fill  '  Tristram 
Shandy,'  and  constitute  one  of  the  principal  charms 
of  the  book." 

Sterne  long  remained  the  obscure  parson  of  an 


LAUKENCE    STERNE,    OR   THE   HUMORIST      153 

obscure  Yorkshire  parish.  It  must  be  confessed 
that  a  stranger  minister  of  religion  never  climbed 
a  pulpit.  With  a  flighty  temperament,  an  ill- 
regulated  imagination,  an  invincible  inclination  to 
drollery,  few  principles,  and  less  dignity  of  be- 
havior, it  is  hard  to  imagine  such  a  preacher  at  his 
task.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Sterne's  sermons  are 
not  out  of  harmony  with  their  author's  eccentricity. 
He  published  them  :  so  that  we  know  what  we  are 
about.  He  is  still  the  buffoon  of  genius,  restrained, 
no  doubt,  a  little  by  the  gown  he  wears,  but  in- 
demnifying himself  by  the  very  strangeness  of  the 
contrast  between  the  tone  of  a  religious  harangue 
and  the  liberties  he  takes.  He  has  digressions  on 
polygamy,  digressions  on  travel.  The  preacher 
amuses  himself  by  full  descriptions  of  the  disorders 
and  disappointments  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  One  day 
he  takes  for  his  text  this  passage  of  Ecclesiastes  : 
"  It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning  than 
to  the  house  of  mirth,"  and  starts  his  subject  by 
crying,  "  That  I  deny  !  "  At  the  same  time  he  has 
real  merits,  if  they  are  not  exactly  the  merits  of  a 
sacred  orator.  ''  He  knew,"  says  M.  Stapfer,  "  how 
to  be  interesting  without  making  people  laugh:  he 
could  even  be  serious  and  profound.  He  never,  it  is 
true,  has  any  Christian  unction  ;  but  he  has  a  deli- 
cacy of  moral  analysis,  and  a  talent  for  putting 
things  before  his  audience,  which  show  no  common 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  together  with  dra- 
matic aptitude  still  less  common."     For  the  rest  — 


154        ESSAYS   ON    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

still  according  to  M.  Stapfer  —  Sterne  as  a  preacher 
was  only  "an  amateur  in  sacred  literature,  study- 
ing in  the  Bible  stories  the  motives  of  the  wicked 
and  the  just  with  the  disinterested  curiosity  of  a 
philosopher,  and  drawing  little  pictures  of  their 
good  and  bad  actions  with  the  passionate  imagina- 
tion of  an  artist." 

But  with  all  this  we  must  not  fancy  that  Sterne 
was  a  freethinker  who  preached  only  from  the  li})S 
outwards,  and  as  a  matter  of  business.  On  the  con- 
trary, M.  Stapfer  insists  on  the  sincerity  of  his 
preaching.  He  believed  what  he  taught.  "I  do 
not  say,"  continues  our  critic,  "that  he  practised 
what  he  preached  —  that  is  quite  another  matter  : 
but  he  believed  it.  Hypocrisy  never  entered  into 
his  nature,  and  however  odd  such  a  minister  of 
religion  may  seem,  nothing  would  be  falser  than  to 
represent  him  as  a  Tartufe,  nor  would  it  be  much 
more  exact  to  imagine  him  simply  as  a  joker. 
Sterne  in  his  pulpit,  clad  in  the  black  gown  of  the 
Protestant  preacher,  was  still  an  artist  and  a  phi- 
losopher, a  wit  and  a  sentimentalist,  an  enemy  of 
quacks  and  pedants,  of  superannuated  methods  and 
commonplace  ideas.  He  was  also  an  enemy  of 
gravity,  because  it  is  nine  times  out  of  ten  affected, 
interested,  and  false  :  and  a  friend  of  pleasantry  in 
season  and  out  of  season.  Yet,  again,  he  was  an 
irregular  personality,  liable  to  sudden  changes  of 
humor,  gay  one  moment  and  the  next  serious  or 
even  sad  ;    an  optimist  now,  and   anon  a  misan- 


LAURENCE  STERNE,   OR  THE   HUMORIST      155 

thrope  ;  the  most  whimsical  of  writers  and  of  men 
in  his  ways  of  thinking,  feeling,  and  writing." 

I  may  interrupt  myself  here  to  remark  that  while 
we  make  acquaintance  with  Sterne  we  also  make 
acquaintance  with  M.  Paul  Stapfer,  his  critic  and 
biographer,  and  that  this  young  author's  book  has 
already  commended  itself  to  me  by  more  than  one 
trait  of  exact  and  delicate  observation.^ 

Rousseau  became  an  author  at  thirty-seven  : 
Sterne  was  forty-seven  when  he  published  the  two 
first  volumes  of  "  Tristram  Shandy."  It  is  difficult 
to  understand  inspiration  so  late  in  the  day,  but 
it  was  written  that  everything  about  our  author 
should  be  unique.  Anyhow,  his  success  was  imme- 
diate and  very  great.  Though  the  volumes  appeared 
modestly  enough  at  York,  two  hundred  copies  were 
solc>in  two  days,  and  when,  a  short  time  afterwards, 
Sterne  went  to  London,  he  found  himself  famous. 
Everybody  wanted  to  see  him  :  he  was  invited 
everywhere,  and  to  secure  him  it  was  necessary  to 
take  steps  two  months  beforehand.  The  name  of 
"  Tristram  Shandy  "  was  given  to  a  new  salad,  to  a 
new  game  of  cards,  to  several  racehorses.  The 
book  lay  on  all  tables  :  it  was  pirated  and  imitated, 
attacked  and  defended.     A  peer.  Lord  Falconberg, 

1  [I  hope  it  is  not  impertinent  to  add  another  interruption. 
M.  Stapfer,  who,  at  the  time  M.  Scherer  wrote  these  words,  was 
a  friend  and  colleague  of  my  own,  and  whose  doctoral  thesis  is 
the  subject  of  this  essay,  has  since  held  Professorships  in  Letters 
at  Grenoble  and  Bordeaux,  and  has  produced  capital  work  on 
Shakespeare,  Rabelais,  and  other  subjects. —  Trans.] 


15G         ESSAYS   ON    EXGLTSH    LITERATURE 

thought  he  could  not  show  his  admiration  for  the 
author  better  than  by  bestowing  on  him  a  benefice 
worth  a  liundred  guineas  a  year;  a  bookseller  for 
liis  part  offered  him  6o0l.  for  two  new  volumes. 

From  this  time  Sterne  passed  a  considerable  part 
of  his  time  in  London  —  in  the  drawing  rooms  that 
pulled  caps  for  him,  with  the  wifs  of  the  time,  in 
the  gardens  of  Kanelagh,  and  behind  the  scenes  of 
Drury  Lane.  K"or  was  he  less  well  received  in 
Paris,  whither  Englishmen  were  then  fond  of  com- 
ing to  have  their  renown  ratified.  I  do  not  know 
how  it  happened  that  our  eighteenth-century  letters 
and  memoirs  preserve  hardly  any  trace  of  his  pas- 
sages there.  Garat,  however,  has  drawn  him  in  a 
few  lines,  and  shows  him  to  us  as  we  already  know 
him,  "always  and  everywhere  the  same:  never 
influenced  by  plans,  and  always  carried  away  by 
impressions  ;  at  the  theatre,  in  the  drawing  room, 
on  the  bridge,  always  somewhat  at  the  mercy  of 
things  and  persons  ;  always  ready  to  be  amorous  or 
pious,  burlesque  or  sublime."  He  was  at  Paris 
when  he  burst  a  bloodvessel  in  his  chest,  and  his 
health,  already  delicate,  was  henceforth  wholly 
precarious.  In  vain  he  sought  a  cure  in  the  south 
of  Prance  and  in  Italy  ;  consumption,  without  van- 
quishing his  levity  or  his  gaiety,  held  him  between 
life  and  death.  The  "Sentimental  Journey" 
appeared  in  Pebruary,  1768,  and  three  weeks 
afterwards  its  author  died  at  London  in  furnished 
lodgings.     It  has  been  asserted  that  his  corpse  was 


LAURENCE   STERNE,   OR   THE   HUMORIST     157 

stolen  by  resurrection  men,  that  he  was  dissected, 
and  that  one  of  his  friends  coming  in  during  the 
demonstration  recognized  the  body,  and  swooned 
with  a  shriek  of  horror. 

No  one  can  have  a  complete  or  even  a  sufficient 
idea  of  Sterne  who  does  not  know  what  a  pitch,  both 
of  passion  and  fickleness,  he  had  reached.  ISTever 
was  there  a  more  inflammable  heart.  ''I  must," 
he  wrote,  "positively  have  some  Dulcinia  in  my 
head.  It  is  a  condition  of  moral  harmony  for  me. 
I  am  firmly  persuaded  that,  if  ever  I  do  a  base 
thing,  it  can  only  be  in  the  interval  between  one 
passion  and  another.'^  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  went 
from  one  Dulcinia  to  another,  without  taking  any 
trouble  to  engineer  the  transitions.  It  is  said  that 
he  included  the  whole  sex  in  his  passion.  "  After 
all  the  weaknesses  I  have  seen  in  women,  and  all 
the  satires  I  have  read  against  them,"  wrote  Sterne 
towards  the  end  of  his  life,  "  I  love  them  still,  per- 
suaded that  the  man  who  has  not  a  kind  of  affec- 
tion for  the  entire  sex  is  incapable  of  loving  a 
single  woman  as  he  ought."  His  very  marriage 
was  nothing  but  a  love  passage,  and  he  dealt  with 
it  no  otherwise.  We  possess  the  letters  which  he 
wrote  to  "his  Lumley,"  as  he  called  his  betrothed, 
full  of  sentimental  assurances  and  of  tears  ;  but  we 
possess  also  a  letter  in  dog  Latin  which  he  wrote 
twenty  years  later  to  his  friend  Stevenson  "  Sum 
fatigatus  et  aegrotus  de  mea  uxore  plus  quam 
unquam."     His  second  passion  was  for  Catherine 


158        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Bemnger  de  Fourmentelle,  a  girl  of  French  extrac- 
tion, who  lived  at  York  with  her  mother.  For  her 
Sterne  does  not  in  the  least  beat  about  the  bush  ; 
he  ardently  desires  that  God  may  soon  relieve  him 
of  his  wife,  so  that  "  his  Kitty  "  may  at  last  be 
wholly  his.  "There  is  only  one  hindrance  to  our 
happiness,"  he  writes  to  Kitty,  "  and  what  that  is 
you  know  as  well  as  I.  God  will  open  a  gate  which 
will  allow  us  to  be  one  day  much  nearer  each  other." 
This  attachment,  which  was  to  be  eternal,  lasted 
but  a  year.  The  success  of  "Tristram  Shandy" 
put  everything  out  of  Sterne's  head,  and  when  the 
poor  woman  left  York  to  join  him  in  London,  he 
could  not  find  time  even  to  see  her. 

I  fancy  that  jVI.  Stapfer  does  not  pretend  to  be 
exhaustive  on  this  subject.  It  is  impossible  to 
enumerate  all  the  conflagrations  which  successively 
devoured  this  celebrated  humorist.  "  'Tis  like  the 
stars  in  the  sky,"  said  Sainte-Beuve  to  me  once, 
speaking  of  Chateaubriand's  attachments  ;  "  the 
more  you  look  at  them,  the  more  you  discover."  So 
it  is  with  poor  Yorick.  In  1764,  Sterne  was  at 
Paris  on  his  return  from  a  two  years'  stay  in  the 
south  of  France,  and  it  is  easy  to  guess  what  kept 
him  there  for  eight  weeks  ;  he  writes  to  Stevenson, 
"  I  have  been  under  the  yoke  of  the  tenderest  i)as- 
sion  whose  empire  heart  ever  underwent."  But  the 
most  famous  of  his  affairs  of  the  heart  was  that 
which  made  Eliza  Draper  immortal.  Eliza  had 
been  born  in  India.     As  she  was  consumptive,  her 


LAUEEXCE   STERXE,   OP.   THE   HUMOEIST     159 

husband  had  sent  her  to  England  for  medical  care, 
and  though  she  had  not  been  cured,  she  Avas  on  the 
point  of  returning  to  Bombay  when  Sterne  made 
her  acquaintance.  She  was  a  young  woman  who 
seems  to  have  possessed  in  the  highest  degree  the 
grace  and  indefinable  charm  of  languor.  Eaynal 
celebrated  her  in  one  of  those  pompous  apostrophes 
which  we  cannot  read  nowadays  without  a  fit  of 
laughter.  "  0  territory  of  Ajinga!  thou  art  naught, 
but  thoLi  hast  given  birth  to  Eliza!  A  day  will 
come  when  the  marts  of  commerce  founded  by 
Europeans  on  the  Asian  coasts  will  exist  no  longer. 
Grass  will  hide  them,  or  the  Indian,  at  last  avenged, 
will  build  upon  their  ruins.  But  if  my  writings 
have  any  life,  the  name  of  Ajinga  will  abide  in  the 
memory  of  man,"  and  so  forth.  Sterne's  own  letters 
to  Eliza  are  less  burlesque,  but  not  less  enthusiastic. 
Alas  !  they  had  at  last  to  separate  ;  Eliza  went  to 
join  Mr.  Draper,  and  Sterne  remained  at  London. 
It  is  impossible,  is  it  not,  to  refrain  from  pitying 
them  ?  We  imagine  the  immense  and  lasting  deso- 
lation : 

Que  le  deuil  de  mon  âme  était  lugubre  et  sombre  ! 
Que  de  nuits  sans  pavots  !     Que  de  jours  sans  soleil  ! 

Why,  to  think  so  would  be  to  know  nothing  at  all 
of  Yorick's  nature  !  Eliza  had  not  been  three  weeks 
gone  when  Sterne  wrote  another  declaration  to 
another  beauty  :  —  "  Beloved  fair  !  What  a  dish- 
clout  hast  thou  made  of  my  soul  !     Less  than  an 


160        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

hour  ago  I  fell  on  my  knees.  I  swore  never  to 
come  near  thee  again,  and  after  saying  the  Lord's 
Prayer  for  the  sake  of  the  end,  '  Lead  us  not  into 
temptation,'  I  rose  up  like  a  Christian  soldier, 
ready  to  light  the  world,  the  Hesh,  and  the  devil, 
and  assured  of  trampling  all  these  foes  beneath  my 
feet.  But  now  that  I  am  so  near  you,  a  mere  stone's 
throw  from  your  house,  I  feel  myself  seized  with  a 
giddiness  which  turns  my  brain  upside  down." 
Diamond  cut  diamond  !  It  is  but  too  clear  that 
Sterne,  as  Warburton  said,  was  an  incorrigible 
blackguard.  But  Eliza  Draper,  for  her  part,  was 
nothing  but  a  coquette,  for  she  had  kept  Sterne's 
letters,  and  it  was  she  who  published  them. 

II 

It  is  time  to  come  to  the  works  of  an  author  who 
has  been  depicted  to  us  as  so  bizarre  and  capricious. 
We  have  already  seen  that  he  did  not  take  x>en  in 
hand  till  very  late,  when  he  was  forty-seven  years 
old.  He  died  nine  years  afterwards,  and  within 
this  short  space  of  time  he  published  the  nine  vol- 
umes of  "  Tristram  Shandy,"  the  "  Sentimental 
Journey,"  and  the  ^^  Sermons."  Both  the  novel 
and  the  "  Journey  "  were  left  unfinished  ;  but  had 
their  completion  ever  been  intended  ?  For  taking 
your  hero,  as  the  author  does,  so  many  months  be- 
fore his  birth,  for  halting  so  long  on  the  steps  of  a 
staircase,  for  discussing  so  learnedly  noses,  knots, 


LAURENCE    STEllXE,    OK    THE    HUMORIST      161 

and  moustaclies,  would  even  the  forty  volumes  that 
the  biogra,pher  promised  have  sufficed  ?  Is  not  the 
sudden  dropping  of  the  story  and  the  reader  the 
necessary  climax  of  all  the  practical  jokes  which 
the  writer  has  arranged  for  us  ?  We  have  no  right 
to  complain  of  anything  when  we  go  on  board  with 
such  a  shipmate  unless  he  happens  to  bore  us,  for 
the  buffoon  is  condemned  to  be  always  amusing. 
It  must  be  confessed  that  Sterne  has  not  paid  quite 
attention  enough  to  this  law  of  the  style.  He  is 
tedious,  lengthy,  wearisome,  obscure,  repellent,  to 
such  an  extent  that  his  books,  "  Tristram  Shandy  " 
especially,  are  little  read  nowadays.  And  yet 
"Tristram"  is  a  masterpiece:  the  characters  of 
my  Uncle  Toby  and  of  Corporal  Trim  are  real 
creations.  There  is  nothing  more  original,  nothing 
more  thoroughly  worked  out,  in  any  literature  ;  but 
nothing  less  than  these  admirable  portraits  and 
some  charming  passages  could  have  succeeded  in 
sanng  Sterne's  books.  The  mere  style  which  he 
created,  and  to  which  his  name  remains  in  some 
sort  attached,  the  style  of  humorous  fantasy,  would 
not  have  sufficed  to  do  it. 

There  are  three  things  to  distinguish  in  Sterne  — 
his  sentiment,  his  humor,  and  his  method  ;  for  there 
is  deliberate  method  in  this  writer.  Sentiment  and 
pleasantry  flow  freely  and  at  first  hand  from  him  ; 
but  mannerism  mixes  with  them  at  the  last,  and 
hurts  the  first  inspiration. 

Sterne  is  a  sentimentalist:  in  the  same  way  as 


1(32         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LITERATUKE 

the  whole  eighteenth  century  was,  as  Diderot  is  in 
his  passionate  apostrophes,  as  the  whole  of  France 
became  in  the  following  of  Kousseau.  Men  talked 
of  virtue  and  sentiment  just  as  they  wore  powder 
and  matches.  Virtue,  for  her  part,  held  her  ground 
till  far  into  the  Kevolution,  and  supplied  the  mate- 
rial of  endless  harangues,  those  of  Eobespierre  in 
particular.  Sensibility  was  not  so  long  lived  ;^  she 
gave  place  to  the  heroism  of  Brutus  and  his  kind. 
Yet  JNIadame  Koland  was  still  a  "  sensible"  woman, 
.and  Olympe  de  Gouges,  when  she  wrote  to  the  Con- 
vention asking  for  permission  to  defend  Louis  XVI., 
spoke  of  examples  which  had  "  excited  her  heroism 
and  aroused  her  sensibility."  Sterne  is  at  once 
tender-hearted  and  sentimental  ;  that  is  to  say, 
naturally  susceptible  of  sympathetic  emotions,  and 
inclined  at  the  same  time  to  invite  them  for  the 
pleasure  that  he  feels  in  them,  and  the  credit  they 
gain  him.  He  was  very  early  familiar  with  the 
tone  of  tenderness.  See  how  he  describes  the  soli- 
tude in  which  "his  Lumley  "  has  left  him.  "A 
solitary  plate,"  he  writes  to  her,  "  only  one  knife, 
one  fork,  one  glass  !  I  bestowed  a  thousand  pensive 
and  penetrating  glances  on  the  chair  that  you  have 
so  often  adorned  with  your  graceful  person  in  our 
tranquil  and  sentimental  repasts."     He  insists  that 

1  [I  think  M.  Scherer  brings  the  abhorred  shears  to  Sensibil- 
ity too  early  :  but  as  I  could  only  refer  to  an  essay  of  my  own  on 
the  subject,  it  is,  perhaps,  better  to  confine  myself  to  this  simple 
remark. —  Trans.] 


LAURENCE    STERNE,    OR    THE    HUMORIST      163 

when  his  time  conies,  he  will  die  alone,  far  from 
home,  in  some  inn.^  If  you  will  believe  him,  the 
suffering  of  friends  at  such  a  moment,  nay,  the  last 
offices  of  affection,  would  torment  his  soul  and  suffice 
to  kill  him.  "  Thank  God  !  "  he  cries,  " for  my  sensi- 
bility ;  though  it  has  often  caused  me  suffering,  I 
would  not  give  it  for  all  the  pleasures  of  coarse  sen- 
sualists.'' We  can  now  understand  what  Sterne 
means  by  a  '-Sentimental  Journey.'-  The  traveller 
à  la  Sterne  is  a  man  who  troubles  himself  but  little 
about  the  goal  for  which  he  is  making,  or  the  regions 
which  he  traverses.  He  hardly  visits  remarkable 
monuments,  he  says  nothing  of  the  beauty  of  places  ; 
his  objects  of  search  are  sweet  and  affectionate  -j- 
emotions.  Everything  becomes  to  him  matter  for 
sympathy:  a  caged  bird,  a  donkey  sinking  under 
ill  treatment,  a  poor  child,  an  old  monk.  A  sort 
of  universal  benevolence  makes  him  take  his  share 
of  all  small  sorrows,  not  exactly  for  the  purpose  of 
consolation,  but  to  enter  into  them,  to  taste  their 
savor,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  to  extract  the  pictur- 
esque from  them.  Sentimentalism  is  perfectly  com- 
patible with  a  certain  strain  of  egotism,  and  the 
sentimental  traveller  is  at  bottom  much  more  his 
own  master  than  is  thought.     It  is  for  this  reason 


1  [It  is  fair  to  observe  that  he  did.  Few  persons  of  sensibility 
thus  kept  their  word. —  Trans^ 

2  [Here  M.  Scherer  quotes,  in  a  note,  the  well-known  pas- 
sages from  the  Journey  as  to  "  the  man  who  goes  from  Dan  to 
Beersheba  "  and  the  "  quiet  journey  of  the  heart."  —  Trans.'] 


164       ESSAYS  ON  en(;lisii  literature 

that  he  paints  so  excellently,  for  this  also  that  he 
so  often  exaggerates  and  strikes  into  falsetto.  The 
history  of  Father  Lorenzo  is  an  example  of  these 
exaggerations.  Lorenzo  had  given  Sterne  his  snuff- 
box, and  some  months  afterwards  our  traveller, 
revisiting  Calais,  learns  that  the  poor  monk  is 
dead.  He  "  burst  into  tears  "  '  at  the  tomb.  Well 
and  good,  but  there  are  too  many  of  these  tears  in 
Sterne.  I  like  him  better  when  his  tenderness 
keeps  better  measure,  or  when  he  contents  himself 
with  a  simple  humane  impulse.  In  this  style  of 
touching  simplicity,  he  has  told  stories  which  are, 
and  deserve  to  be,  famous,  being  pure  masterpieces, 
such  as  the  story  of  Le  Fevre,  the  death  of  Yorick, 
the  two  donkeys,  the  dead  donkey  of  Xaimpont, 
and  him  of  the  pastry-cook.  Did  Sterne  ever  write 
anything  more  exquisite  than  Uncle  Toby's  fly  ? 
Is  not  the  hero  of  the  siege  of  Namur  all  in  this 
trait  ?  ^ 

To  sum  up,  Sterne  is  a  tale-teller  of  the  first 
order  and  excellent  in  sentimental  scenes.  But  he 
has  the  faults  of  his  style  •  he  abuses  the  trick  of 
interesting  the  heart  in  trifles  :  he  enlarges  little 
things  too  much  :  he  scarcely  ever  declaims,  but  he 
sometimes  whimpers. 

Let  us  go  on  to  the  form  of  his  pleasantry.  Sterne 
is  a  humorist.  Humor  is  so  distinctly  the  character- 
istic of  his  writings  that  they  have  been  useful  in 

1  [These  celebrated  passages  are  translated  in  the  original. 
—  Trans.] 


LAURENCE   STERNE,    OR    THE   HUMORIST     165 

fixins:  the  sense  of  the  word.  But  if  Sterne  re- 
mains  the  type  of  humor,  he  is,  notwithstanding, 
by  no  means  the  sole  representative  of  it  :  antiquity, 
it  has  been  observed,  knew  it  not  :  tlie  Latin  peo- 
ples appear  less  capable  of  the  feelings  which  it 
implies  than  the  Germanic  nations.  Yet  Spain  has 
Cervantes  and  France  Eabelais.  Germany  pos-  ' 
sesses  Jean  Paul  ;  in  England  Shakespeare  is  full  of 
this  kind  of  wit,  and  Carlyle  has  taken  great 
trouble  to  inoculate  himself  with  it. 

What,  then,  is  humor  ?  In  other  words,  what 
have  the  writers  whom  we  have  just  mentioned  in 
common  ?  M.  Stapfer  has  devoted  the  whole  of  an 
excellent  chapter  to  the  subject.  He  fixes  for  his 
own  part  on  a  definition  according  to  which  the 
humorist  is  the  tragi-comic  painter  of  humanity 
and  of  human  absurdity.  That  is  pretty  exact,  save 
that  it  is  subject  to  the  drawback  of  not  telling  us 
very  much.  I  think  it  is  possible  to  go  somewhat 
deeper  ;  for  humor  seems  to  be  an  idea  in  aesthetics 
which*  admits,  as  well  as  another,  of  analysis  and 
definition.  Let  us  start  from  laughter,  since  laugh-  X 
ter  is  a  thing  familiar  to  us.  It  is  excited  by  a 
sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  the  ridiculous  a-rises 
from  the  contradiction  between  the  use  of  a  thing 
and  its  intention.  A  man  falls  on  his  back  :  we 
cannot  help  laughing  unless  it  so  happens  that  his 
fall  is  dangerous,  and  so  one  sentiment  is  driven 
out  by  another.  The  terrors  of  Sancho,  the  brags 
of  Falstaff,  the  rascalities  of  Scapin,  amuse  us  be- 


IGO         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

cause  of  their  disproportion  Avitli  tlie  circumstances, 
or  their  disagreement  with  facts.  Such  is  the  law 
as  well  of  the  iinest  wit  as  of  the  coarsest  pun- 
ning :  at  bottom  of  the  pleasure  we  experience  when- 
ever we  laugh  there  is  the  surprise  produced  by  a 
disparity.  As  for  the  physical  effect  determined 
by  this  surprise,  it  is  sufficiently  well  known  for 
there  to  be  no  need  of  describing  it  :  in  our  amaze- 
ment and  amusement  we  experience  a  slight  spasm 
of  the  muscles  of  the  face  and  the  vocal  organs. 
That  is  the  analysis  of  laughter;  it  is  complete; 
we  have  the  whole  phenomenon  before  us. 

Let  us  now  take  matters  on  a  larger  scale,  and 
extend  our  terms.  The  disparity  lies  no  longer  in 
the  double  sense  of  a  word,  between  an  attitude  and 
our  usual  decorum,  between  the  madness  of  a  moment 
and  the  rational  conduct  which  forms  the  main  sub- 
stance of  life.  It  is  between  the  man  himself  and 
his  destiny,  between  the  whole  of  reality  and  the 
ideal  which,  rightly  or  wrongly,  imposes  itself  on 
our  minds  as  the  law  of  things.  The  contrast  is 
glaring  on  all  sides.  We  hold  ourselves  formed  for 
happiness  and  virtue,  destined  for  everything  that 
is  true,  noble,  and  sublime;  and  if  we  have  the 
least  touch  of  sincerity,  we  are  obliged  to  recognize 
that  we  are  weak,  vacillating,  limited,  prosaic,  fickle. 
No  one  is  a  hero  to  his  valet  de  chambre,  because  the 
valet  de  chambre  knows  what  is  beneath  and  behind 
the  hero.  Whence  comes  a  great  and  all-pervading 
comedy,  the  human  comedy,  "  Vanity  l'air." 


I^UREXCE    STERNE,    OU   THE    HUMORIST     167 

Now,  let  us  suppose  tliat  an  artist  has  grasped 
this  irony  of  fate  in  all  its  lively  qualities.  Yet 
the  result  must  not  be  irritation  or  indignation. 
He  has  learnt  to  be  tolerant.  He  has  no  special 
grudge  at  nature  for  corresponding  so  little  to  an 
ideal  which  is  perhaps,  after  all,  arbitrary.  He  is 
even  able  to  bestow  compassion  on  the  strange  short- 
comings of  our  poor  species.  He  puts  up,  pitifully 
and  even  sympathetically  after  a  fashion,  with  all 
these  examples  of  the  mean,  the  base,  the  small,  tlie 
poor.  At  bottom  he  discovers  that  everything  is 
not  so  bad,  that  humanity  is  not  altogether  so  much 
to  be  complained  of,  tha,t  there  are  other  persons 
here  below  besides  rascals  and  ruffians.  ISTay,  more, 
he  takes  pleasure  in  discovering  everywhere  vestiges 
of  an  original  and  indefeasible  nobility.  Still  he 
knows  at  the  same  time  that  all  of  it  has  a  seamy 
side,  and  he  delights  in  turning  that  side  out  :  in 
showing  the  tribe  of  narrownesses  and  absurdities 
that  accompan}'-  virtue,  the  grotesque  that  pushes 
its  way  among  things  venerable  and  venerated.  The 
views  of  our  artist  are  tempered  by  a  kind  of  mel- 
ancholy :  he  laughs  at  humanity,  but  with  no  bitter- 
ness. The  perception  of  the  contrasts  of  human 
destiny  by  a  man  who  does  not  sever  himself  from 
humanity,  but  who  takes  his  own  shortcomings  and 
those  of  his  dear  fellow-creatures  cheerfully  —  that 
is  the  essence  of  humor. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  the  kind  of  pleasantry 
which  results  from  it  —  a  kind  of  gall-less  satire,  a 


1G8         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH    LiTEUATUllE 

mixture  of  things  touching  and  tilings  merry,  a 
mutual  permeation  of  the  eomic  and  the  sentimen- 
tal. lUit  this  is  not  all.  The  humorist,  if  he  be 
anal3^zed  to  the  end,  is  a  sceptic.  The  tolerance  of 
the  wretchednesses  of  humanity  by  which  he  is  char- 
acterized can  only  come  from  a  certain  weakening 
of  idealism  in  him.  He  sees  perfectly  well  that 
our  absurdities  are  often  excusable  or  even  the 
cloaks  of  virtue  ;  but  he  sees  also  that  our  virtues 
have  their  absurd  sides,  and  this  is  hardly  compat- 
ible with  a  vigorous  moral  conviction.  For  him 
the  fact  eclipses  the  ideal  to  which  the  fact  corre- 
sponds so  imperfectly  and  so  awkwardly.  Whence 
it  comes  that  our  humorist  is  very  apt  to  play  with 
his  subject  :  he  does  not  take  very  seriously  a 
spectacle  which  to  him  is  only  a  spectacle,  hollow 
enough,  and  petty  enough  after  all.  His  heart  is 
but  half  in  his  business  as  a  moralizer:  his  sin- 
cerit}^  is  not  unmixed  :  his  first  object  is  to  amuse 
himself  and  other  people.  And  this  is  why  he  is 
so  very  likely  to  exaggerate  the  kind  of  pleasantry 
to  which  he  gives  himself  up.  He  will  pile  on  the 
contrasts  and  the  dissonances,  seek  oddity  for 
oddity's  sake — find  it  necessar}^  to  be  droll  at  any 
price,  invent  what  is  burlesque,  fall  into  what  is 
equivocal  and  even  merely  buffoonish.  Yet  this 
does  not  prevent  the  temperament  of  the  humorist 
from  being,  on  the  whole,  the  happiest  that  a  man 
can  bring  with  him  into  this  world,  and  the  humor- 
ist's point  of  view  the  justest  from  which  it  can  be 


LAUKENCE   STERNE,    OH    THE   HUMORIST      169 

judged.  The  satirist  grows  wroth:  the  cynic  ban- 
ters :  the  hiimorist,  for  his  part,  by  turns  Laughs 
and  sympathizes. 

He  has  neither  the  fault  of  the  pessimist,  who 
refers  everything  to  a  purely  personal  conception, 
and  is  angry  with  reality  for  not  being  such  as  he 
conceives  it;  nor  that  of  the  optimist,  who  shuts 
his  eyes  to  everything  missing  in  the  real  world, 
that  he  may  comply  with  the  demands  of  his  heart 
and  his  reason.  The  humorist  feels  the  imperfec- 
tions of  reality  and  resigns  himself  to  them  with 
the  good  humor  which  knows  that  our  own  satisfac- 
tion is  not  the  rule  of  things  ;  that  the  formula  of  the 
universe  is  necessarily  larger  than  the  preferences 
of  a  single  one  of  the  accidental  beings  of  whom 
the  universe  is  composed.  The  humorist  is  beyond 
all  doubt  the  true  philosopher  —  always  providing 
that  he  is  a  philosopher. 

Without  going  about  to  do  so,  we  have  just 
drawn  the  portrait  of  Sterne.  He  had  neither  ill 
nature  nor  egotism;  but  (which  is  much  more 
human)  he  had  weakness  and  levity.  His,  says  M. 
Stapfer,  was  a  kind  of  optimism  which  believed  in 
the  good  of  human  nature  and  the  moral  government 
of  the  vrorld,  without  denying  the  evil  and  the  dis- 
orders in  both  —  I  should  add,  especially  without 
taking  either  tragically  or  troubling  himself  much 
about  them.  He  writes,  "  'Tis  a  good  little  world, 
the  world  in  which  we  live.  I  take  Heaven  to  wit- 
ness, after  all  my  jesting,  my  heart  is  innocent,  and 


170         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LlTEllATUKE 

the  sports  of  my  pen  just  like  those  of  my  infancy 
when  I  rode  cock-liorse  on  a  stick."  And  elsewhere  : 
"  Vive  la  hagatelle  !  0  my  humor,  never  hast  thou 
painted  in  black  the  objects  I  met  in  my  way.  In 
danger  tliou  hast  gilt  my  horizon  with  hope,  and 
when  death  itself  knocked  at  my  door,  thou  didst 
tell  him  to  call  again  with  so  gay  an  air  of  careless 
indifference  that  he  doubted  his  mission." 

There  we  have  him  —  a  light  and  easy  humor,  a 
man  who  looks  at  once  with  amusement  and  sym- 
pathy at  human  affairs,  wlio  loves  the  world  without 
forming  too  high  an  idea  of  it.  And  we  have,  as 
the  result,  a  kindly  satire,  where  bitterness  is  re- 
placed by  good  humor,  contempt  by  affection,  the 
spirit  of  detraction  by  sensibility,  a  satire  which 
inspires  ns  with  interest  and  even  affection  for  the 
very  persons  of  whom  it  makes  fun. 

Besides  this  fundamental  characteristic,  which 
is  the  property  of  humor,  and  which  constitutes 
Sterne's  originality,  he  has  a  notable  talent  as  a 
moralist  and  a  tale-teller.  "  He  possessed  "  (I  am 
still  quoting  M.  Stapfer)  '^  a  delicate  psychological 
faculty;  the  power  of  creating  character  and  arrang- 
ing situation  ;  the  talent  of  drawing  personages  and 
of  making  them  speak  ;  a  knack  of  sentiment, 
noble,  touching,  or  absurd  ;  pathos,  color,  truth, 
nature,  style."  Indeed,  M.  Stapfer  is  never  tired 
of  returning  to  Sterne's  creative  genius,  and  espe- 
cially its  finest  instance,  the  two  brothers  Shandy.^ 

1  [Here  M.  Sclierer  inserted  a  long  passage,  or  rather  cento, 
from  M.  Stapfer.  —  Trans.] 


LAURENCE   STERNE,    OR   THE    HUMORIST      171 

For  Sterne  does  not  merely  outline  characters  ;  he 
sets  them  at  work,  as  I  have  already  said,  in  de- 
lightful scenes  ;  or  rather  his  manner  of  showing 
them  is  by  making  them  speak  or  act.  I  have 
mentioned  my  Uncle  Toby  and  the  fly  ;  but  how 
many  little  pictures  of  the  same  kind  there  are  ! 
How  charming  a  thing,  for  instance,  is  the  history 
of  the  adventure  by  the  roadside  between  Nîmes 
and  Lunel  !  The  traveller  hears  music,  alights 
from  his  mule,  finds  peasants  dancing  to  the  music 
of  the  tambourine;  mixes  with  them,  skips  with 
Nanette.  "Why,"  cries  he,  "could  I  not  live 
and  end  my  days  thus  ?  Just  Disposer  of  our  joys 
and  sorrows,  why  could  not  a  man  sit  down  in  the 
lap  of  content  here,  and  dance,  and  sing,  and  say 
his  prayers,  and  go  to  heaven  with  this  nut-brown 
maid."  Elsewhere  there  are  dialogues  inimitable 
in  their  droll  spirit.  Thus,  the  hero  of  the  book 
has  been  called  Tristram  instead  of  Trismegistus  ; 
it  is  the  result  of  a  mistake,  and  Tristram's  father, 
who  attaches  a  superstitious  importance  to  proper 
names,  takes  the  thing  tragically.  My  Uncle  Toby, 
for  his  part,  cannot  share  this  feeling,  and  relieves 
himself  on  the  subject  to  his  honest  servant,  who 
is  of  his  master's  opinion.^ 

To  all  these  qualities  we  must  add  those  of  style. 

Sterne  is  no  ordinary  writer  ;  in  his  best  passages 

he  has  a  fashion  of  writing  —  straightforward  and 

natural,  and  at  the  same  time  exact  and  picturesque 

1  [The  passage  is  well  known.  —  Trans.] 


172      ESSAYS  ON  p:ngltsii  literature 

—  wliii'li  implies  either  very  true  instinct  or  very 
great  art.  Tlicre  is  within  his  smallest  detail  "a 
certain  grace  of  originality,  which  makes  things 
unexpected  and  delightful  blossom  in  the  midst  of 
exact  pictures  of  reality."^  Unluckily  Sterne  is 
never  natural  for  long;  if  he  possesses  a  style  of 
his  own,  a  substratum  of  real  originality,  he  pos- 
sesses also  affectations,  a  method,  and  a  great  deal 
of  both.  He  is  a  mannerist.  He  tries  to  be  odd, 
A  which  is  the  worst  way  of  attaining  oddity.  He 
lays  himself  out  to  astonish  us,  which  is  the  worst 
way  of  succeeding  in  doing  so.  He  begins  his 
story  by  the  first  end  he  can  catch  hold  of,  and 
'  then  goes  on  anyhow,  dropping  the  clue  every 
moment,  piling  up  interruptions,  digressions,  dis- 
cussions ;  affecting  not  to  know  what  he  is  going 
to  write  next  sentence  ;  building  his  theatre  before 
us,  and  insisting  that  ^ve  shall  see  its  tricks  and 
dodges;   appearing  in  person  on  the   scene   with 

1  As  I  am  speaking  of  Sterne's  style,  I  will  say  a  word  of  the 
unpublished  fragment  which  M.  Stapfer  has  given  us,  and  which 
seems  to  him  to  be  due  to  the  author  of  the  SentimentalJourney. 
The  handwriting  of  the  original  is  said  to  be  like  that  of  Sterne, 
but  the  piece  is  unsigned,  and  there  is  no  sufficient  information 
as  to  its  origin  and  its  history.  The  manner  and  the  style  are 
yet  to  be  dealt  with.  I  must  say  that  I  have  difficulty  in  recog- 
nizing therein  the  humorous  writer  we  all  know.  It  might,  at  a 
pinch,  be  Sterne's;  nothing  makes  the  supposition  impossible: 
but  I  must  add  that  nothing  obliges  us  to  accept  it,  for  nothing 
recalls  the  thought  or  the  manner  of  the  supposed  author. 

[This  note  referred  to  a  fragment  which  had  been  supplied  to 
M.  Stapfer  by  a  Yorkshire  friend  in  whose  family  the  MS.  had 
long  been.  —  Trans.] 


LAUKENCE   STERNE,    Oil   THE   HUMORIST      173 

fool's  cap  on  head,  and  warning  us  that  he  is  going 
to  do  so  ;  jingling  his  bells,  pirouetting,  shouting 
words  of  double  meaning  at  us,  playing  tricks  on 
the  audience.  These  devices  are  by  no  means 
invariably  amusing  —  very  far  from  it.  How  is 
one  to  be  amused  by  chapters  in  reverse  order, 
blank  pages,  blacked  pages,  haphazard  diagrams  ? 
Can  Sterne  possibly  have  thought  all  this  quaint 
and  witty  ?  Can  the  exquisite  author  of  the  story 
of  Le  Fevre  have  mistaken,  as  so  often  happens, 
the  strength  and  the  weakness  of  his  genius,  hold- 
ing as  its  true  originality  what  was  only  slag  and 
dross  ?  What  is  certain  is  that  Sterne  keeps  afloat 
to-day  on  the  current  of  literature  with  some  diffi- 
culty, and  that  it  is  the  fault  of  the  very  eccentric- 
ities on  which  he  plumed  himself.  For  he  does 
plume  himself  on  them,  and  this  is  what  sets  us 
against  him  ;  his  drolleries  are  sought  for,  his 
caprices  deliberate.  There  is  affectation  in  his 
letting  himself  go  ;  he  is  the  most  learned  of  buf- 
foons, the  most  sophisticated  of  simpletons,  so 
much  so  that  you  are  sure  of  nothing  in  him, 
neither  of  his  tears  nor  of  his  laughter.  But  why 
seek  to  grasp  a  personality  so  mobile,  to  define  so 
subtle  a  talent  ?  M.  Stapfer  has  collected  in 
more  than  one  fine  passage  the  result  of  his  study 
on  Sterne,  and  has  really  left  nothing  to  be  done 
after  him.  It  would  be  impossible  to  put  in  a 
judgment  a  nobler  conception  of  humanity,  more 
reason,  or  more  grace. 
Maij  1870. 


IX 


WORDSWORTH  AND  MODERN  POETRY  IN 
ENGLAND 


I  HAVE  need  of  all  the  interest  with  which  the 
subject  of  this  article  inspires  me  to  enable  me  to 
surmount  the  difficulties  which  I  foresee  in  it.  It 
is  always  hard  to  speak  of  a  foreign  poet,  even 
though  he  be  a  Shakespeare,  a  Goethe,  or  a  Byron  ; 
for  one  cannot  suppose  all  readers  familiar  with  the 
work  wliich  is  to  be  the  subject  of  discussion,  and 
yet  it  is  impossible  to  discuss  this  work  without 
supposing  it  known  already.  How  much  greater 
does  the  difficulty  become  when  the  writer  to  whom 
it  is  desired  to  call  attention  has  noJEuropean  repu- 
tation, when  he  has  not  been  translated,  and  when 
as  a  consequence  his  name  carries  no  meaning  with 
it  to  the  reader  !  We  must  quote  him  to  give  any 
idea  of  his  genius,  and  to  quote  him  we  must  trans- 
late him,  unless  we  wish  merely  to  address  the 
small  number  of  persons  who  understand  his 
language.  Now,  how  are  we  to  translate  a  poet  ? 
In  verse  ?     My  opinion  on  this  point  is  known  j  ^ 

1  [One  of  M.  Scherer's  very  best  critical  essays  ("De  la  Tra- 
duction en  Vers,"  Etudes,  v.  319-3il)  is  a  vigorous  defence  of 
the  opinion  here  expressed.  —  Trails.} 
174 


WOEDS^YOETH   AND   MODEllX   POETEY     175 

it  is  only  a  ^larc  ^Monnier  ^  who  can  allow  liimself 
experiments  of  this  kind,  and  even  then  this  prince 
of  translators  inspires  us  rather  with  admiration 
for  his  skill  as  a  virtuoso  than  with  a  feeling  that 
we  really  grasp  the  authors  he  has  rendered.  Shall 
we  have  recourse  to  a  prose  version  as  more  Vv^ithin 
our  reach,  and  at  the  same  time  able  to  keep  closer 
to  the  original  ?  Yes  ;  but  if  we  then  keep  the 
sense,  we  voluntarily  give  up  the  form  ;  and  is  not 
the  form  in  poetry  the  very  essence  of  jthe  thing  ? 
We  sacrifice  the  color  to  keep  the  outline  ;  but  what 
becomes  of  a  painting  when  the  color  has  vanished? 
In  such  straits  does  the  critic  find  himself  when  he 
tries  to  serve  as  interpreter  between  two  languages  ; 
and  yet  we  must  give  him  license  to  attempt  it 
sometimes.  It  is  really  not  admissible  that  names 
which  are  illustrious  but  a  few  leagues  beyond  our 
frontiers  should  never  be  uttered  in  France,  or 
should  be  uttered  without  carrying  with  them  even 
a  tolerably  precise  connotation.  ISTow  the  name  of 
"Wordsworth    is    incontestably   one    of    the    great 

names  of  English  literature. 

« 

II 

I  confess  that  my  pleasure  in  speaking  of  Words- 
worth is  increased  by  the  pleasure  of  mentioning 

1  [A  Genevese  littérateur  of  great  ability,  erudition,  and 
elegance  (6. 1829),  who  has  died  since  M.  Scherer's  own  death. 
His  translated  Faust  had  pointed  some  remarks  in  the  essay 
noted  above.— Trons.] 


17G        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

the  eminent  writer  to  whom  we  owe  the  recent 
publication  of  the  poet's  selected  works.  Mr.  Mat- 
thew Arnold  himself  occupies  a  high  place  in  the 
contemporary  literature  of  his  country.  He  pre- 
sents a  singular  example  of  that  modern  curiosity 
which  explores  all  paths,  touches  all  subjects,  and 
tries  all  ways  of  expression.  He  has  been  by  turns 
a  theologian,  a  poet,  and  a  critic,  and  (a  rarer 
thing)  he  has  attempted  nothing  in  which  he  has 
not  excelled.  His  religious  conceptions  are  distin- 
guished by  a  combination  of  freedom  of  thought, 
historical  intelligence  of  fact,  and  lively  sentiment 
of  moral  beauty.  Christianity  is  for  him  only 
a  form  of  what  he  calls  Hebraism  ;  but  Hebraism 
itself  is  one  of  humanity's  titles  of  honor.  Mr. 
Arnold's  theological  essays  have  often  made  me 
think  of  that  most  original  enterprise  of  the  Ger- 
man Schleiermacher.  With  very  different  methods, 
with  less  science  and  dialectical  apparatus,  but  on 
the  other  hand  with  far  more  lightness  of  touch, 
fineness  of  perception,  and  sympathy  for  the  needs 
of  the  age,  they  present  the  same  effort  to  disen- 
gage from  religious  beliefs  their  divine  and  perma- 
nent substratum,  and  to  raise  religious  thought  to 
a  height  where  it  becomes  equally  independent  of 
critical  investigation  and  speculative  philosophy. 

We  have  accustomed  ourselves  to  paradoxes  in 
modern  culture  ;  and  the  same  writer,  the  same 
theologian,  who  has  discussed  so  pertinently  God 
and  the  Bible,  the  authenticity  of  St.  John's  Gospel 


WOUDSWOilTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY     ITT 

and  the  teachiug  of  St.  Paul,  is  also  a  poet.  Indeed 
he  began  as  such,  and  in  this  guise  he  has  quite 
recently  showed  himself  again  by  publishing  a  com- 
plete edition  of  his  poetical  works.  Here,  as  every- 
where, for  the  matter  of  that,  his  position  is  at 
once  high  and  peculiar.  Mr.  Arnold  is  neither  the 
disciple  of  a  school  nor  the  slave  of  his  own  man- 
nerism ;  he  possesses  the  originality  which  sincerity 
gives  when  it  is  helped  by  natural  and  divine  gifts. 
I  may  add  that  in  Mr.  Arnold  the  poet  has  the 
same  elasticity  as  the  thinker  ;  he  takes  all  man- 
ners and  leaves  them  by  turns,  by  turns  he  tries  all 
instruments.  We  have  from  him  epic  stories  and 
attempts  in  drama,  elegies  of  no  common  savor, 
great  philosophical  pieces.  And  in  every  style  he 
has  a  certain  absolutely  personal  accent  and  note 
of  distinction.  The  language  of  verse  has  seldom 
clothed  thought  at  once  so  ample  and  so  easy. 

Have  we  done  with  him  ?  Xot  yet.  From  the 
marriage  of  such  a  thinker  and  such  a  poet  sprang 
a  critic  —  the  liveliest,  the  most  delicate,  the  most 
elegant  of  critics,  the  critic  who  has  given  out  most 
ideas,  has  conferred  upon  them  the  most  piquant 
expression,  and  has  most  thoroughly  shocked  the 
sluggishness  of  British  thought  by  wholesome 
audacities.  There  is  one  other  point  on  which 
everybody  is  agreed.  Mr.  Arnold  is  a  delightful 
writer;  full  of  limpid  clearness  and  unaffected 
grace.  We  never  catch  him  in  the  act  of  trying  set 
attitudes  or  ambitious  tricks.     It  is  refreshing  to 


178         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

open  his  books  when  one  has  just  been  reading  the 
great  mannerists  on  whom  the  literature  of  our 
neighbors  so  falsely  prides  itself  —  Carlyle,  with 
his  conscious  deliberate,  calculated  jargon  :  Kuskin, 
with  his  affectations  of  profundit}^,  with  his  labo- 
rious qut;st  after  expression,  with  all  the  studied 
poses  of  a  quackery  saddening  to  see  in  conjunction 
with  merit  which  is  often  great,  and  constituting  a 
sin  against  true  sincerity  and  lofty  taste. 

There  is  a  kind  of  ingratitude  in  the  way  in  which 
we  in  Trance  ignore  the  works  of  Mr.  Arnold.  For 
there  is  no  foreign  writer  who  is  better  acquainted 
with  the  literature  of  our  country,  or  Avho  has  on 
the  whole  such  a  sympathy  (I  had  nearly  said  such 
a  weakness)  for  our  ways  of  thinking,  our  manners, 
our  institutions.  He  envies  us  our  political  equal- 
ity, and  he  even  extols  the  services  rendered  by  the 
French  Academy.  His  reading  is  not  limited  to 
our  classics;  he  enjoys  our  intermediate^  writers, 
and  has  introduced  to  his  countrymen,  Senancour, 
Joubert,  Maurice  de  Guérin  and  his  sister.  I  fear 
it  is  true  that  he  is  less  orthodox  on  the  subject  of 
our  poetry  ;  he  has  somewhere  in  one  of  his  articles 
an  awkward  phrase  about  Lamartine,  and  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  Eacine  did  not  appeal  to  him. 
But  far  be  it  from  me  to  owe  him  a  grudge  for  this. 
I  have  long  laid  my  account  with  such  matters,  and 
have  seen  without  disgust  the  indifference  of  for- 

1  [Intermediate,  that  is  to  say,  between  the  Classical  school 
and  the  Romautic  revival. —  Trans.] 


WORDS WOKTH  AND  MODERN  POETRY  179 

eigners  to  beauties  which,  from  the  very  fact  that 
they  are  not  generally  perceived,  are  only  dearer 
and  more  sacred  to  their  true  adorers. 

There  is  one  idea  —  that  of  culture  —  which  recurs 
frequently  in  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  works.  He 
has  defined  what  he  means  by  it.  The  man  of  culture 
in  his  sense  is  not  the  man  who  possesses  a  mass 
of  erudition,  nor  the  man  who  is  distinguished  by 
more  or  less  intellectual  strength.  Culture,  as  he 
understands  it,  is  that  fineness,  that  delicacy,  that 
sureness  of  perception  which  is  given  by  familiarity 
with  the  great  thinkers  of  all  times,  which  is 
produced  by  the  knowledge  of  the  best  things  which 
have  been  said  in  the  world.  It  is  easy  to  under- 
stand how  at  this  level  of  thought  literature  connects 
itself  with  morality  ;  how  poetry  finally  blends  with 
religion  ;  and  it  is  easy  also  to  discern  the  higher 
meaning  of  certain  of  the  writer's  assertions,  which 
seemed  at  the  first  blush  to  be  mere  genial  eccentrici- 
ties. Mr.  Arnold,  who  is  far  from  endowing  himself 
with  any  kind  of  mission,  who  is  the  simplest  and 
least  affected  of  men,  has  none  the  less  become  in  his 
own  country  the  representative  of  the  higher  func- 
tion of  letters.  No  one  has  recognized  their  human- 
izing influence  as  he  has,  and  no  one  was  so  fit  as 
he  to  become  the  apostle  of  what  I  may  call  intel- 
lectual civilization.  At  the  present  moment  Mr. 
Arnold  is  the  most  seductive  product  that  English 
literature  has  to  offer,  by  reason  of  his  union  of 
thought  and  fancy,  of  solidity  and  grace,  of  self- 
respect  and  liberty  of  mind. 


180         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LlTEUATUllE 

III 

In  the  graceful  preface  wliicli  he  lias  set  in  front 
of  his  selection  from  Wordsworth's  works  Mr. 
Arnold  endeavors  to  hx  the  poet's  place.  This  to 
his  thinking  is  a  very  high  one.  Wordsworth  seems 
to  him  to  liave  the  marks  of  poetical  greatness  ;  and 
these  marks  Mr.  Arnold  accordingly  defines. 

The  great  poet,  in  our  critic's  sense,  is  the  poet 
who  expresses  the  noblest  and  profoundest  ideas 
on  the  nature  of  man,  who  has  a  philosophy  of  life, 
and  who  impresses  it  powerfully  on  the  subjects  he 
treats.  The  definition  is  obviously  rather  vague. 
It  is  true  that  Mr.  Arnold  adds  that  the  philosophical 
conception  of  things  ought,  in  the  poet's  work,  to 
be  produced  within  the  eternal  conditions  of  poetical 
beauty  and  truth.  Only,  he  does  not  tell  us  what 
these  conditions  are,  and  it  is  exactly  this  that  we 
ought  to  know,  in  order  to  determine  whether  Words- 
worth is  an  artist  as  well  as  a  thinker. 

What  is  poetry  ?  And  what  do  "\ve  mean  when 
we  say  that  a  site,  a  picture,  a  book  is  poetical  ? 
We  must,  indeed,  observe  that  the  word  fits  tilings 
very  different.  It  is  with  it  as  with  another  aesthetic 
category,  that  of  beauty.  We  apply  the  term  beau- 
tiful to  the  most  diverse  objects — a  tree,  ahorse, 
a  thought,  a  speech,  an  action,  a  character.  There 
must  clearly  be  something  in  common  between  the 
uses,  different  as  they  are,  of  the  same  term  ;  but  in 
what  does  this  element  of  resemblance  lie  ?     Is  it 


WORDS WOETH  AND  MODERN  POETRY  181 

not  that  we  call  a  thing  beautiful  when  it  approaches   '  ?    -^^^^ 
the  typical    notion   that  we  form  by  spontaneous    < 
abstraction  of  individual  traits  ? 

By  proceeding  in  a  similar    manner  we  may,  I 
think,  reach  the  conclusion  that  the  poetical  element 
of  things  is  the  property  they  have  of  setting  the   y-      t 
imagination  in  motion,  of  stimulating  it,  of  suggest-  '1  \ 

ing  to  it  much  more  than  is  actually  perceived  or 
expressed.  The  poet  is  he  who  sees  through  his 
imagination,  and  the  special  quality  of  imagination 
is  to  increase  everything  that  it  sees,  everything 
that  it  touches,  to  expand  or  to  abolish  limits,  and 
so  to  idealize.  Yet  we  must  not  say  that  it  embel- 
lishes ;  nor  must  we  generally  lend  ourselves  to  the 
confusion  of  the  ideas  of  poetry  and  of  beauty.  A 
cathedral,  for  instance,  is  more  poetical  than  beauti- 
ful ;  and  the  Parthenon,  on  the  other  hand,  is  more 
beautiful  than  poetical.  Indeed,  imagination  can 
increase  horror  as  well  as  charm. 

To  speak  shortly,  then,  and  taking  it  by  itself, - 
poetry  is  the  sight  of  things  through  the  eyes  of  j 
imagination  ;  and  poetical  expression  is  the  repro-  ' 
duction  of  them  under  the  form  most  capable  of 
arousing  the  imaginative  powers  of  the  reader.     And 
so  imagery  is  the  special  language  of  poetry.     Let 
the  reader  try  to  recall  the  finest  passages  of  his 
favorite   poets,  and   he  will  see  that  it  is  by  the 
choice  and  the  charm  of  metaphors  and  comparisons 
that  they  delight  him.     Why  is  the  exclamation  of 
Antiochus,  in  Eacine,  a  favorite  quotation  ? 


182         ESSAYS   ON    ENGLISH   LlTEUATUllE 
Dans  l'orient  désert  quel  devint  mon  ennui  1 

What  is  it  that  makes  this  verse  ol  Lamartine  one 
of  the  Unest  in  the  language  ? 

Dans  r horizon  désert  Phébé  monte  sans  bruit  ? 

AVhence  comes  the  admirable  melancholy  of  this 
passage  of  Victor  Hugo  ? 

Qui  peut  savior  combien  toute  douleur  s'émousse 

Et  combien  dans  nos  coeurs  un  jour  d'herbe  qui  pousse 

Efface  des  tombeaux  ? 

Join  to  the  imaginative  conception  of  things  the 
expression  proper  to  arouse  this  conception  in  others, 
submit  this  expression  to  the  laws  of  rhythm,  give 
it  the  cadence  which  by  a  secret  connection  puts 
nervous  sensation  in  accord  with  the  movement  of 
thought,  and  you  will  have  poetry  in  the  complete 
and  concrete  sense  of  the  word. 

IV 

To  enjoy  a  poet,  there  is  no  need  to  do  more  than   t^ 
take  his  works  and  read  them  ;   to  judge  and   to 
comprehend  him  (which  is  the  projier  task  of  the 
critic)  we  must  also  place   ourselves  at  the  time 
y  ^^\  when  he  wrote,  must  explore  the  influences  under 
^\^  which  he  was  formed,  and  those  which  in  his  turn 

-^.  '     ^/^C     he  exercised.     AVe  must,  in  short,  assign  him  his 
{^  place  in  literary  history. 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY      183 

One  thing  is  clear  at  the  first  reading  of  Words- 
worth, and  this  is  that  he  belongs  to  the  reaction 
against  the  Classical  school,  the  school  personified 
by  the  great  names  of  Dryden  and  Pope,  repre- 
sented also  honorably  by  Thomson,  Goldsmith,  and 
Gray  —  the  school  which,  with  Campbell,  Rogers, 
and  Byron  himself,  threw  up  suckers  even  in  the 
very  heyday  of  the  Eomantic  period.  The  charac- 
teristics of  the  Classical  school  in  England  were 
pretty  much  the  same  as  among  ourselves  —  in 
point  of  matter,  more  rhetoric  and  eloquence  than 
feeling  or  fancy  ;  in  point  of  form,  the  sonorous- 
ness of  skilful  periods  and  the  surprises  of  a  per- 
petual antithesis.  But  if  Wordsworth  was  the 
most  industrious  and  noteworthy  of  the  innova- 
tors he  was  by  no  means  the  earliest.  That  place 
should  rather  be  given  to  Cowper,  whose  chief 
poem,  ^^The  Task,"  dates  from  1785,  and  really 
marks  an  epoch  in  the  destinies  of  English  poetry 
b}^  setting  the  example  of  simplicity  and  nature, 
by  choosing  very  simple  subjects,  by  adopting  a 
fluent  and  familiar  versification.  A  curious  thing, 
indeed,  that  this  hermit,  with  his  sorrowful  soul, 
his  morbid  piety,  his  reason  always  struggling 
with  madness,  should  have  left  so  unquestionable 
a  mark  on  the  literature  of  his  country  !  There 
can  be  no  hesitation  in  connecting,  if  not  with 
Cowper's  example  yet  with  the  same  yearning  for 
innovation  and  the  same  general  and  hidden  ten- 
dencies, the  tales  of  a  poet,  George  Crabbe,  whose 


184        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITEUATUKE 

numerous  works  had  immense  popularity  at  the 
beginning  of  this  century,  but  wlio  for  his  part 
sinned  by  excess  of  simplicity.  In  his  hands,  the 
natural  style  became  merely  and  placidly  prosaic, 
and  so  we  only  make  mention  of  the  author  of  the 
"Parish  Eegister"  as  a  matter  of  history.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  must  take  Burns  as  of  the  first  im- 
portance in  respect  of  the  influences  which  acted 
on  Wordsworth  and  help  to  explain  him.  Not 
that  this  admirable  lyric  poet  takes  rank  in  the 
pedigree  which  we  are  trying  to  draw  up.  He  had 
nothing  to  learn  and  nothing  to  unlearn  ;  he  shot 
up  as  spontaneously  as  the  daisy  of  his  own  moun- 
tains. Yet  it  is  to  the  breath  which  was  then 
blowing  on  English  letters  that  Burns  owed  the 
welcome  given  to  his  poems,  and  being  thus  natu- 
ralized on  the  south  of  the  Tweed,  he  himself 
became  one  of  the  authors  of  the  revolution  which 
Wordsworth  completed. 

We  now  know  Wordsworth's  origins,  the  family 
of  which  he  sprung.  His  first  poems,  the  "  Lyrical 
Ballads,"  date  from  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury ;  but  he  was  not  thirty  when  they  appeared, 
aud  he  definitely  belongs  to  the  movement  of  poetic 
renovation  which  has  left  glorious  traces  on  the  lit- 
erature of  his  country  during  the  first  quarter  of 
the  nineteenth.  It  is  true  that  he  continued,  long 
after  this  period,  to  be  prolific  without  any  notable 
change  of  style,  and  without  any  sensible  weak- 
ening of  his  genius.     In  his  life  of  eighty  years, 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY      185 

he  saw  many  a  revolution  in  the  conception  of  art, 
and  in  the  admirations  of  the  public.  His  own 
career,  let  me  repeat,  offers  no  appreciable  distinc- 
tion between  the  works  of  his  youth  and  those  of 
his  maturity,  nor  any  of  the  transformations  which 
are  observable  in  the  life  of  some  artists.  His 
poetic  fame,  on  the  other  hand,  had  its  phases 
and  its  vicissitudes.  Wordsworth  first  appears  to 
us  as  one  of  the  most  noted  champions  in  the 
struggle  wherein  his  friends,  the  other  Lakers,  Col- 
eridge, Southey,  John  Wilson,  fought  in  a  lower 
rank  than  his  ;  but  in  which  he  also  met  noisier 
and  more  brilliant  competitors  who  eclipsed  him 
for  a  while.  From  this  time  forward  he  had  his 
admirers,  even  his  devotees  ;  but  he  had  also  his 
contemners.  One  side  held  him  up  as  the  prophet 
of  a  new  poetical  religion,  the  other  mocked  at  his 
style.  But  these  very  controversies  proved  that 
he  had  already  excited  and  arrested  public  opinion  ; 
that  is  to  say,  that  he  was  already  famous.  As 
for  fashion,  which  is  a  different  thing,  that  was 
for  the  moment  entirely  on  the  side  of  two  writers, 
one  of  whom,  in  a  series  of  poems  full  of  brilliancy 
and  music,  jDoured  forth  an  inexhaustible  vein  of 
chivalry;  while  the  other  dressed  up  the  gloomy 
caprices  of  a  blasé  in  the  turban  and  the  caftan. 
We  in  France  are  now  too  wont  to  forget,  or,  to 
speak  more  exactly,  we  never  quite  knew,  the 
enthusiasm  excited  by  Walter  Scott's  legendary 
epics  until  their  popularity  was  shadowed  by  the 


18G         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

stronger  and  more  romantic  conceptions  of  Lord 
lîyron,  and  by  the  prodigious  success  of  Scott's 
own  prose  stories. 

The  progress  of  literature,  a  subject  hitherto 
insufficiently  studied,  is  dominated  by  three  great 
laws.  The  first  turns  on  the  modifications  which 
are  produced  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  state  of 

\  N  the  public.  The  point  of  view,  especially  in  our 
modern  societies,  changes  incessantly,  and  with  the 
point  of  view  in  general  everything  changes  like- 
wise —  taste  as  well  as  ideas,  the  starting  points  of 
art  as  well  as  those  of  thought.  Yet  it  sometimes 
happens,  and  here  we  come  to  the  second  of  the  laws 
of  which  I  speak,  that  progress  is  brought  about, 
not  by  simple  development  of   ideas,  but,  on  the 

/> ,  .  contrary,  by  more  or  less  pronounced  reaction,  the 
human  mind  eagerly  and  willingly  running  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  which  it  had  formerly 
followed.  The  third  and  last  law  —  one  which 
applies  no  less  frequently  than  the  others  —  con- 

^  sists  in  the  satiety  produced  by  custom,  and  the 
yearning- for  innovation  which  comes  of  satiety. 
The  human  mind  wants  to  be  interested,  and  there 
is  no  interest,  or  at  least  no  forcible  stimulant, 
except  in  surprise.  The  intelligence  demands 
novelty  as  the  body  demands  action  :  or  else  the 
.  man  falls  into  ennui  —  the  most  terrible  of  evils, 
the  evil  which  all  seek  to  avoid,  and  do  avoid  at  all 
hazards.  I  must  ask  pardon  for  going  back  so  far 
in  order  to  explain  a  thing  simple  enough  in  itself, 


:> 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY       187 

but  it  is  precisely  because  it  is  simple  that  suffi- 
cient attention  has  not  been  paid  to  it.  But,  how- 
ever this  may  be,  my  readers  will  easily  guess  the 
application  I  wish  to  make  of  these  principles  to 
literature.  A  great  poet  cannot  escape  imitators. 
He  has  opened  a  way  into  which  everybody  is  sure 
to  rush  ;  some  to  profit  by  the  public  taste^  others 
because  their  talent  naturally  and  spontaneously 
takes  the  shape  which  genius  has  just  consecrated. 
And  so  come  secondary,  even  tertiary,  forma- 
tions. After  Homer  comes  Virgil  ;  after  Virgil, 
the  modern  epics  from  Tasso  to  the  "  Henriade." 
After  Sophocles  comes  Eacine  ;  after  Eacine,  Vol- 
taire and  the  whole  classical  tragedy  up  to  1830. 
But  the  imitators  are  so  busy,  that  at  last  readers 
are  sick  of  them,  cry  '^  Hold  !  "  and  insist  on  some- 
thing new.  It  is  impossible  that  something  new 
should  not  come  —  something  grandly  and  really 
new  if  the  national  genius  is  strong  enough  ;  some 
affected  and  puerile  imitation  in  wording,  costume, 
local  color,  if  genius  refuses  to  revive  an  exhausted 
literature. 

There  is  no  country  of  our  time  where  the  suc- 
cession of  poetical  masters,  and  with  them  of  poeti- 
cal influences,  tastes,  schools,  and  methods,  has 
been  so  rapid  as  it  has  in  England.  The  reason  is 
that  (contrary  to  the  notions  of  our  Continental 
ignorance)  the  English  are  the  most  poetical  nation 
in  Europe,  and,  what  is  more,  that  Englishmen, 
reading  much  more  than  we  do,  are  much  more  sub- 


188         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

ject  to  the  needs  of  change  of  which  I  spoke  just 
now.     In  J*'rance  we  have  not  got  beyond  Byron. 
For   us    modern  poetry  is    still   embodied   in   the 
works  —  brilliant  enough  and  easily  understood  — 
of  a  man  whose  disorderly  life,  whose  ostentation 
of  misanthropy,  whose  pretentious  dandyism  —  in 
a  word,  whose  littleness  and  affectation,  have  never 
succeeded  in  diminishing  his  ancient  vogue  with 
our  countrymen.     But  the   English  are  long  past 
Byronism.     As  Byron  succeeded   Scott,  so  in  his 
turn   he  was  himself  succeeded  by  other  inspira- 
tions.    The  author  of  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake'' 
and  "  Marmion,"  after  enchanting  one  generation, 
ended  by  seeming  insufficient  to  a  society  which 
was  still  excited  and  moved  by  the  Eevolution  and 
the   wars   of    the    Empire.      However   superficial 
Byron's  passion  may  seem  to  us  now,  its  tone  of 
intimate  appeal  answered   the   prevalent   demand 
better  than  the  exterior  and  objective  poetry  of  the 
Scotch  chansons  de  geste.     Men  were  drawn  back, 
with  a  power  which  could  not  be  denied,  to  the 
inner  world,  to  the  hidden  drama,  to  restless  aspi- 
rations.    Only,  this  too  wore  itself  out,  and  that 
quickly.     The  factitiousness  of  this  ostentation  of 
boredom  and  despair  was  felt  before  long  ;  Byron- 
ism was  too  violent,  and  for  that  reason  not  true 
enough,  to  answer  the  lasting  needs  of  the  soul. 
The  abuse,  as  always,  invited  the  reaction.     After 
such  a  debauch  of  exaggerated  sentiment,  men  were 
seized  with  a  thirst  for  sincerity  and   simplicity. 


WOEDS WORTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY       189 

Besides,  tliey  had  not  the  inconvenience  of  waiting 
for  the  epiphany  of  a  preacher  of  the  new  gospel. 
He  was  there  at  hand;  he  had  been  writing  for 
thirty  years  ;  he  had  already  a  share  of  influence 
and  renown  ;  a  party  had  actually  formed  round 
him.  And  it  was  from  this  moment,  about  1825, 
that  the  second  epoch  of  Wordsworth's  influence 
dates  —  the  epoch  which  was  at  once  that  of  his 
uncontested  popularity  and  of  his  acknowledged 
supremacy  in  literature. 

Then,  as  always  happens  in  these  cases,  men 
thought  they  had  discovered  the  last  word  of  art 
in  him.  Philosophy  of  the  most  exalted  kind  had 
met  its  final  form  in  the  most  perfect  poetry  ;  and 
the  result  was  full  of  simplicity,  sincerity,  benefi- 
cence. For  some  fifteen  years  Wordsworth,  in  his 
remote  retreat  of  Eydal  Mount,  enjoyed  glory 
which,  though  it  has  certainly  grown  less  bright 
since  then,  was  after  all  deserved,  and  admirably 
free  from  alloy. 

Yet  he  was  not  the  less  bound  to  be  in  his  turn 
the  victim  of  a  new  evolution  of  taste  and  thought. 
As  Byron  had  succeeded  Scott  by  working  with 
more  energetic  stimulants  on  men's  minds  ;  as 
Wordsworth  later  had  attracted,  by  his  contrast  of 
healthy  simplicity,  imaginations  jaded  by  Byron- 
ism  ;  so  Wordsworth  himself  in  the  long  run  began 
to  seem  unsatisfying.  His  defects  were  more 
clearly  seen.  The  need  of  a  wider  thought,  of  a 
more  brilliant  fancy,  was  felt.     This  was  the  mo- 


190         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

ment  for  the  rehabilitation  of  two  poets  who  had 
both  died  in  the  flower  of  their  age,  unknown  or 
disdained,  some  twenty  years  earlier.  Shelley  and 
Keats  in  tlieir  turn  became  projihets  and  leaders  of 
schools.  Tlie  first  and  greater  of  the  two  had  been 
drowned  in  1822,  at  the  age  of  thirty,  in  the  Gulf 
of  Spezzia  ;  but  his  genius  had  been  of  a  rare  i)re- 
cocity,  and  he  left  a  great  number  of  poems  in  very 
different  styles.  The  dominant  —  unluckily  by  far 
the  dominant  —  note  in  them  was  that  of  a  social 
Utopia.  Shelley's  naïve  and  generous  soul  was 
possessed  with  the  idea  of  a  world  governed  by  jus- 
tice and  by  reason.  He  had  conceived  an  immense 
pity  for  all  suffering,  and  in  consequence  an  im])lac- 
able  wrath  against  the  creeds  and  the  institutions 
which  he  took  to  be  the  causes  of  such  suffering. 
He  was  still  an  undergraduate  when  he  bade  defi- 
ance to  the  orthodoxies  of  his  country  :  the  results 
were  a  quarrel  with  his  family,  an  ill-starred  mar- 
riage, exile,  poverty,  persecution  —  altogether  a 
state  of  affairs  in  which  it  was  difficult  for  the 
public  to  separate  the  poetical  genius  from  the 
revolutionary  Utopist.  Moreover  his  earlier  works, 
and  even  some  of  his  later,  were  penetrated  to  the 
core  of  their  substance  with  the  fault  of  didactic 
intention,  and  hardly  permitted  tlieir  readers  to 
enjoy  their  exquisite  poetical  beauty,  smothered  as 
it  was  under  the  apparatus  of  visions,  personifica- 
tions, and  allegories.  At  least  half  of  Shelley's  work 
is  spoilt  by  intolerable  humanitarian  "  purpose." 


WOBDSWOETH   A>s'D   MODERN   POETRY       191 

It  was  only  at  intervals,  when  the  sentiment  of 
nature  overpowered  him,  or  when,  here  and  there, 
some  earthly  love  mingled  with  Platonic  dreams  in 
his  heart,  that  pure  poetry  got  the  upper  hand  in 
this  writer's  mind.  Yet,  on  the  whole,  after  saying 
all  this,  after  making  all  these  allowances,  Shelley  /- 
is  a  poet  of  the  first  order,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that 
his  star  when  it  once  rose  in  the  heaven  of  English 
poetry  dimmed  that  of  Wordsworth.  It  was,  we 
must  allow,  the  stronger  of  the  two.  It  was  not 
more  various,  for  Shelley,  like  Wordsworth,  is  not 
free  from  monotony.  There  was  not  much  more 
vibration  of  the  string  of  human  passion;  for,  if 
Shelley  is  sometimes  what  AVordsworth  never  is, 
in  love,  his  loves  are  of  a  very  ethereal  kind.  But  / 
Shelley  had  more  freedom,  his  thought  was  more  ; 
daring,  he  touched  higher  questions,  he  expressed 
deeper  anxieties,  more  actual  needs  of  contempo- 
rary humanity.  And  he  did  all  this  in  a  poetical 
tongue  of  wider  range,  of  deeper  resonance,  of 
greater  imaginativeness,  of  a  melody  simply  mar- 
vellous—  a  thrilling  and  subtle  melody,  now  like 
the  slow  and  solemn  murmur  of  the  wind  in  the 
pine  forest,  now  like  the  liquid  and  pearly  notes  of 
the  lark  soaring  in  the  sunbeams. 

A  resemblance  in  fate  rather  than  in  talent  is  the 
reason  of  the  fact  that  one  involuntarily  thinks  of 
Keats  and  Shelley  together.  Keats,  a  little  younger 
than  Shelle}",  died  before  him,  when  not  yet  six 
and  twenty,  and  leaving  but  two  substantive  poems 


102         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

(one  of  them  unfinished)  and  a  small  number  of 
exquisite  lyrics.  His  faults  are  numerous  and 
glaring.  The  mythology  which  supplied  him  with 
his  mise  en  scène  is  elementary  and  almost  puerile. 
His  stories  are  lacking  in  human  interest.  In  fact, 
he  does  hardly  anything  but  describe,  and  he 
describes  with  an  exuberance  which  is  unluckily 
not  incompatible  with  the  most  painful  monotony. 
The  enthusiasm  for  nature  which  is  the  soul  of  his 
verse  is  certainly  sincere,  and  yet  Keats  writes  with 
effort.  His  naïveté  is  not  feigned,  but  there  is 
something  in  it  of  deliberation,  and  therefore  of 
exaggeration.  In  short,  there  is  affectation  in  him, 
and  I  cannot  regard  as  wholly  unjust  the  reproach 
of  cockne3'ism  which  critics  used  to  throw  at  this 
poet  and  his  friends.  Yet,  with  all  these  faults, 
Keats  is  very  far  from  being  an  ordinary  person  ;  his 
posthumous  popularity  is  very  far  from  being  inex- 
plicable, and  the  influence  which  he  still  exercises  is 
very  far  from  being  a  mere  matter  of  coterie  and 
engouement.  He  has  a  special  feeling,  a  feeling  of 
extraordinary  intensity,  for  nature  and  for  beauty. 
It  seems  as  though  he  saw  woods,  streams,  fields 
for  the  first  time,  so  full  of  novelty  and  of  the  mar- 
vellous is  the  spectacle  to  him.  There  is  at  once 
sensuousness  and  religion  in  his  communion  with 
the  life  of  all  things.  There  would  seem  to  be  a 
perfume  which  gets  in  his  head,  an  intoxication  to 
which  he  gives  himself  up,  a  ritual  into  whose  mys- 
teries he  is  trying  to  break,  a  baptism,  a  whelming 


WOEDS WORTH   AND   MODEEX   POETRY       193 

in  tlie  eternal  natura  naturans.  Wordswortli  him- 
self, as  we  shall  see,  can  lay  claim  to  a  deeper 
understanding  of  nature  :  but  it  is  easy  to  under- 
stand that  his  idyllic  piety,  his  patriarchal  philos- 
ophizing, must  have  at  last  seemed  terribly  grovel- 
ling to  a  generation  which  had  drunk  the  heady 
philtres  of  Keats's  descriptive  poetry. 

Do  I  mean  that  modern  poetry  in  England  has 
stopped  at  Keats  and  Shelley  ?  Not  at  all  ;  for, 
once  again,  there  is  no  finality  in  art,  and  no  man 
has  ever  been  able  to  boast  of  having  said  the  last 
"word  on  anything.  Great  writers,  as  they  enlarge 
the  fields  of  the  human  soul,  only  create  new  needs 
and  excite  to  new  experiments.  Keats  and  Shelley 
have  certainly  not  been  thrown  into  the  shade  by 
Tennyson  ;  but  it  is  equally  certain  that  Tennyson 
has  climbed  on  their  shoulders,  and  has,  in  some 
respects,  reached  a  higher  level.  If  he  is  not  supe- 
rior in  strength  or  grandeur  to  Shelley,  the  metal 
of  his  poetry  is  purer,  its  workmanshij^  is  more 
ingenious  and  more  exquisite,  the  work  taken  as  a 
whole  is  of  a  more  surprising  variety.  Tennyson 
possesses  a  consummate  science  of  rhythm,  the 
rarest  resources  of  phrase,  taste,  grace,  distinction, 
every  sort  of  cleverness,  of  research,  of  refinement. 
He  is  the  author  of  lyric  pieces  unequalled  in  any 
language,  some  of  infinite  delicacy,  some  of  engross- 
ing pathos,  some  quivering  like  the  blast  of  a 
knightly  horn.  He  lacks  only  one  thing,  one  su- 
preme gift,  the  pinion-stroke  which  sweeps  G-any- 


194         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

mede  into  the  empyrean,  and  easts  him  panting  at 
Jupiter's  feet.  He  sins  by  his  very  elegance  ;  he 
is  too  civilized,  too  polished.  He  has  tried  every 
style  —  grave,  gay,  and  passionate — the  idyl,  the 
ode,  and  the  elegy,  mock-heroics,  epics,  drama. 
There  is  no  style  in  which  he  has  not  had  brilliant 
success,  and  yet  it  may  be  said  that  he  has  explored 
nothing  thoroughly.  There  are  ardors  in  passion, 
troubles  in  thought,  bankruptcies  of  the  ideal  in 
life,  which  Tennyson's  note  is  not  equal  to  express- 
ing. His  poetry  (whether  as  matter  of  inspiration 
or  of  determination  I  do  not  know)  keeps  too 
strictly  to  the  region  of  decencies  and  conventions. 
And  so  we  must  not  be  surprised  if  an  adoring  pub- 
lic came  at  last  to  doubt  its  idol  ;  in  some  cases, 
indeed,  to  carry  its  devotions  elsewhere.  For  these 
persons,  when  they  were  once  in  the  mood  to  be 
faithless,  the  thickets  and  obscurities  of  Browning 
were  sure  to  be  only  an  additional  attraction.  Are 
not  the  most  fashionable  cults  those  which  can 
only  be  reached  after  a  process  of  initiation  ?  But 
it  is  not  our  business  to  follow  the  development 
of  modern  poetry  in  England  further.  What  we 
have  said  is  intended  solely  to  mark  out  Words- 
worth's place  in  this  great  and  splendid  movement. 
He  was  one  of  its  chiefs,  one  of  its  illustrations  ; 
and,  even  putting  this  aside,  he  abides  in  the  litera- 
ture of  his  country  as  one  of  its  chosen  authors, 
relished  and  read  for  the  sake  of  his  own  peculiar 
beauties. 


WOKDSWOETH   AND   MODERN   POETRY       195 


It  may  seem  at  first  sight  that  life  is  necessarily 
modelled  on  each  man's  inborn  tendencies  ;  but  as 
a  fact  it  is  made  up  of  two  things.  It  is,  as  I  think 
I  have  remarked  elsewhere,  as  it  were  the  con- 
fluence of  two  currents,  the  point  of  intersection 
between  the  trajectories  of  two  forces,  those  of 
nature  and  of  destiny.  ISTo  matter  what  we  are  ; 
what  we  shall  be  depends  on  the  accidents  of  edu- 
cation, the  chance  meetings  of  life.  There  are 
even  moments  when  this  thought  is  a  troublesome 
one,  "What  will  the  future  bring  ?  '^  "  How  shall  I 
come  out  of  the  trial  I  cannot  avoid  ?  "  For,  in 
fact,  destiny  is  the  stronger,  and  in  the  case  of 
most  men  she  seldom  allows  nature  to  exercise  her 
rights  fully.  How  rare,  for  instance,  is  a  poetical 
life,  even  with  the  sincerest  poets  !  In  this  respect 
Wordsworth  is  altogether  an  exception.  It  is  im- 
possible to  imagine  either  a  life  better  suited  than 
his  to  his  genius  or  a  soul  better  adapted  to  relish 
the  charm  of  this  life,  to  gather  up  its  inspirations, 
to  tell  its  inner  joys.  He  was  born  and  he  spent 
the  greater  part  of  his  days  in  the  Lake  District  of 
the  north  of  England,  where  nature  is  graceful  and 
charming,  not  violent  enough  to  crush  the  imagina- 
tion, but  bold  enough  and  varied  enough  to  give  it 
gates  of  escape  to  the  infinite.  He  had  travelled, 
and  seen  other  skies  besides  those  of  England  ;  but 
without  going  far  enough  to  bring  back  with  him 


196         ESSAYS   ON    ENGLISH    LITERATUllE 

the  regrets  which  sometimes  pursue  the  traveller 
who  has  walked  under  the  palms.  He  was  born  in 
a  middle  condition,  and  some  friends  procured  him 
independence  and  leisure.  To  conclude,  he  was 
early  notorious  and  later  famous,  and  if  his  star 
paled  a  little  before  his  death,  we  may  believe  that 
he  had  confidence  enough  in  himself  not  to  perceive 
it,  or,  at  least,  not  to  trouble  himself  about  it. 

His  works  —  very  numerous  and  sufficiently  dis- 
similar —  present  a  certain  difficulty  to  those  who 
try  to  class  them  according  to  the  kinds  to  which 
they  belong.  I  think,  however,  that  I  am  neglect- 
ing nothing,  and  at  the  same  time  observing  a 
natural  order,  in  making  three  classes  :  narrative 
poems,  lyrics,  and  sonnets.  Wordsworth's  predilec- 
tion for  the  sonnet,  and  the  success  wherewith  he 
has  cultivated  a  kind  which  might  seem  somewhat 
artificial  for  a  p)oet  of  nature  and  of  the  fields,  are 
things  to  be  observed,  and  important  to  take  ac- 
count of  in  the  final  estimate.  He  has  really 
excelled  in  it,  and  many  of  his  sonnets  approach 
perfection.  Although  English  literature  is  singu- 
larly rich  in  poetical  jewels  of  this  kind,  Words- 
w^orth,  to  my  taste,  has  in  this  respect  rivals,  but 
no  superiors.  The  piece  on  the  sonnet  itself,  that 
composed  on  Westminster  Bridge,  that  addressed 
to  IMilton,  and  half  a  hundred  others  (he  wrote 
four  hundred),  show  that  combination  of  ingenious 
turn  and  victorious  final  touch  which  is  the  triumph 
of  the  kind. 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY       197 

Sainte-Beuve,  who  loved  the  sonnet  in  his  char- 
acter of  "  reflective  "  poet,  and  who  loved  Words- 
worth for  that  vein  of  poetry  at  once  familiar  and 
full  of  feeling,  which  he  would  have  liked  himself 
to  acclimatize  in  France,  translated  or  imitated 
several  of  our  author's  sonnets.  He  returned  to 
the  practice  at  all  times  of  his  life,  inserting  one  or 
two  in  each  of  his  collections.  Such  a  windfall  is 
lucky  for  me,  and  I  make  the  most  of  it  by  citing 
one  of  these  free  translations  :  —  ^ 

Je  ne  suis  pas  de  ceux  pour  qm  les  causeries, 
Au  coin  du  feu,  l'hiver,  ont  de  grandes  douceurs  ; 
Car  j'ai  pour  tous  voisins  d'intrépides  cliasseurs, 
Rêvant  de  cliiens  dressés,  de  meutes  aguerries, 

Et  des  fermiers  causant  jachères  et  prairies, 
Et  le  juge  de  paix  avec  ses  vieilles  sœurs. 
Deux  revêches  beautés  parlant  de  ravisseurs, 
Portraits  comme  on  en  voit  sur  les  tapisseries. 

Oh  !  combien  je  préfère  à  ce  caquet  si  vain, 
Tout  le  soir,  du  silence,  un  silence  sans  fin  ; 
Etre  assis  sans  penser,  sans  désir,  sans  mémoire, 

Et,  seul,  sur  mes  chenets,  m' éclairant  aux  tisons, 
Ecouter  le  vent  battre,  et  gémir  les  cloisons, 
Et  le  fagot  flamber,  et  chanter  la  bouilloire. 

^  [To  re-translate  this  translation  would,  of  course,  defeat  the 
object  of  citing  it.  It  represents,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  the 
famous  "  Personal  Talk,"  and  the  translation  is  "  free  "  in  more 
senses  than  one.  Neither  the  gratuitous  introduction  of  and 
aspersion  on  the  "  deux  revêches  heaute's,"  nor  the  omission  of 
the  beautiful  image  of  the  "  forms  with  chalk,"  is  the  best  pos- 
sible instance  of  Sainte-Beuve's  taste  as  a  translator.—  Trans.] 


t 


198         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

We  might  also  take  from  the  "  Consolations  "  the 
piece  beginning 

Les  passions,  la  guerre,  une  âme  en  frénésie. 

But  we  must  allow  that  the  sonnets  translated 
by  Sainte-Beuve  are  chosen  in  a  rather  narrow 
circle  of  subjects,  and  that  the  comparison  brings 
out  the  difference  set  between  two  poets,  who  in 
sincerity,  and  even  in  depth  of  thought,  approach 
each  other,  by  the  want  of  that  commanding  plastic 
spirit  with  which  Sainte-Beuve,  to  his  bitter  regret, 
knew  himself  to  be  insufficientl}^  endowed. 

Wordsworth's  narrative  poems  include  large  com- 
positions such  as  "  Peter  Bell,"  "  The  Waggoner," 
"The  Prelude,"  and,  chief  of  all,  "The  Excursion," 
a  long  story  in  several  books,  which  is  itself  a  frag- 
ment of  a  still  vaster  whole,  a  kind  of  philosophi- 
cal epic.  To  the  same  class  belong  a  great  number 
of  shorter  tales,  idyls,  eclogues,  ballads,  or  mere 
anecdotes  in  verse,  among  which  are  many  of  the 
author's  most  characteristic  and  best  known  poems. 

We  must  also  draw  a  subdistinction  among  his 
lyrics,  Wordsworth's  chief  title  to  admiration.  Our 
poet  wrote  some  odes  of  a  character  more  classical 
and  (if  I  may  venture  to  say  so)  more  ambitious 
than  seems  consistent  with  his  usual  manner. 
They  are,  however,  much  and  justly  admired  ;  as, 
for  instance,  "  Laodamia,"  the  religious  sym- 
phony on  a  Platonic  theme,  and  the  ode  to  "  Duty." 
The  other  lyrics,  much  more  numerous,  are  in  kind 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN    POETRY      199 

purely  subjective,  and  disengage  themselves  in  all 
sorts  of  forms  —  elegies,  inspirations,  invocations, 
memories,  landscapes.  There  is  not  an  aspect  of 
the  country,  not  an  object  in  the  fields  or  in  the 
woods,  which  does  not  evoke  enthusiasm  in  this 
melodious  soul.  Wordsworth  is  as  much  ravished 
at  the  sight  of  a  buttercup  or  daisy  beneath  his 
feet  as  at  the  rainbow  on  the  horizon  :  and  all  his 
work  is  shot  through  with  a  deep  note  of  medita- 
tion, the  comment  of  the  sage  on  the  teachings  of 
life. 

This  work,  as  I  have  said,  is  considerable.  There 
are  seven  volumes  of  his  poems,  many  of  which 
are  mediocre.  But  there  are  few  poets  who  have 
left  so  many  precious  pieces.  And  he  has,  besides, 
his  own  incontestable  originality.  He  created  the 
class  of  the  childish  ballad,  the  rustic  pastoral,  the 
idyl  of  the  poor  :  and  he  drew  from  the  contempla- 
tion of  nature  tones  of  sweet  and  grave  fervor,  the 
secret  of  which  he  kept.  No  poet  puts  the  reader 
so  thoroughly  in  communion  with  nature,  because 
none  has  felt  a  more  religious  love  for  her. 

VI 

I  shall  point  out  at  once  what  is  wanting  and 
w^hat  is  faulty  in  Wordsworth,  the  qualities  which 
he  lacks,  and  the  imperfections  which  disfigure  his 
poetry.  Let  us  begin  with  the  qualities  lacking. 
No  one  acknowledges  more  fully  than  I  do  the  in- 
justice, not  to  say  the  absurditj^,  of  asking  a  man 


200         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

for  something  else  than  he  has  chosen  to  give,  or, 
worse  still,  reproaching  him  with  not  being  some- 
body else,  and  not  what  nature  has  made  him. 
Therefore,  it  is  not  as  a  reproach,  nor  even  as  a 
regret,  that  I  examine  what  is  wanting  in  Words- 
worth ;  it  is  merely  to  characterize  his  genius  better, 
to  set  his  poetical  physiognomy  in  stronger  relief. 
I  To  great  troubles  of  mind  he  was  a  stranger,  and 
his  nearest  approaches  to  tender  sentiment  are  the 
pieces  to  the  memory  of  that  Lucy  whom  he  has 
himself  described.  As  for  political  emotions,  he 
had,  like  many  others,  hailed  in  the  French  Revo- 
lution the  dawn  of  a  new  era  for  humanity.  His 
sonnets  bear  witness  to  his  wrath  against  the  con- 
queror who  dispelled  his  dreams,  who  put  an  end 
to  the  Venetian  Republic  and  the  independence  of 
Switzerland,  and  who  menaced  England  with  inva- 
sion. There  is  nothing  in  all  this  which  goes  be- 
yond respectable  Liberalism  and  patriotism. 

Let  us  then  make  up  our  minds  not  to  expect 
from  Wordsworth  either  that  knowledge  of  the 
human  heart  which  is  given  by  life  in  the  world, 
or  that  inner  and  dramatic  working  of  passion 
which  no  man  describes  well  unless  he  has  been  its 
victim,  or  those  general  views  on  history  and  soci- 
ety which  are  formed  partly  by  study,  partly  by 
experience  in  public  affairs.  Our  poet  was  as  much 
a  stranger  to  the  harassings  of  thought  as  to  those 
of  ambition,  to  the  pangs  of  love  and  of  hatred  as 
to  the  resignation  at  which  men  arrive  when  they 


Vw' 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN  POETRY      201 

have  seen  how  small  are  the  great  things  of  this 
world.  He  has  nothing  of  the  sublime  melancholy, 
the  ardent  inquiry,  the  audacious  revolt  in  which 
the  poetry  of  half  a  century  ago  delighted.  Still 
less  has  he  the  mocking  scepticism,  the  raillery 
now  gay  now  bitter,  which  followed  the  ''  songs  of 
despair."  He  will  never  rank  with  those  who  like 
Byron,  disturb  the  soul  ;  who  like  Heine,  arm  it 
with  irony  ;  or  who  like  Goethe,  calm  it  with  the 
virtues  of  knowledge.  Wordsworth  is  simply  a 
hermit  who  has  studied  nature  much,  and  has  con- 
stantly analyzed  his  own  feelings.  We  could  hardly 
call  him  a  philosopher  ;  his  mind  is  too  devoid  of 
the  element  of  reasoning  and  speculation.  Even 
the  name  of  thinker  but  half  suits  him  :  he  is  the 
contemplative  man. 

I  have  thus  made  a  list  of  the  qualities  which 
Wordsworth  has  not,  with  all  the  less  intention  of 
casting  them  up  against  him  that  the  qualities  which 
a  writer  lacks  are  usually  the  conditions  of  those 
which  distinguish  him.  Jt  is  otherwise  with  the 
positive  defects  which  disfigure  work,  and  in  regard 
to  which  it  is  equally  impossible  not  to  suppose 
that  they  could  have  been  avoided  and  not  to  wish 
that  they  had  been. 

Mr.  Arnold  cites  a  remarkable  expression  of 
Wordsworth's.  He  remembers  having  heard  him 
say  that  Goethe's  poetry  does  not  possess  the  su- 
preme character  of  being  "inevitable."  By  this 
Wordsworth  meant  that  poetry  ought  to  have  in  it 

UNI'  ^lY   , 


202         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATUllE 

sometliing  spontaneous,  that  one  oui,'ht  to  fed  in  it 
sentiment  rather  than  reflection,  the  spurt  from 
the  inner  fount  rather  than  will  and  design.  The 
saying  was  admirably  just  in  relation  to  Goethe, 
whose  "  Lieder,"  perfect  as  they  are,  and  perliaps 
by  reason  of  this  very  perfection,  give  us  the  eifect 
of  something  crystallized.  It  is  learned,  correct, 
brilliant  ;  the  things,  I  grant,  are  diamonds,  but  I 
see  not  in  them  the  shapes  of  life.^  Besides,  the 
distinction  which  Wordsworth's  mot  suggests  is  of 
very  wide  application.  It  does  not  merely  divide 
poets  into  two  classes  ;  it  serves  to  mark  off,  even 
in  the  works  of  the  same  poet,  many  things  which 
must  be  scored  to  the  account  of  deliberate  purpose, 
not  to  say  of  business.  Our  three  great  contempo- 
rary French  poets  have  all,  though  in  different 
degrees,  the  note  of  inevitableness  ;  yet  all  is  far 
from  being  equally  true  in  them.  As  for  Words- 
worth, he  has  by  no  means  escaped  the  effect  of  his 
own  remark. 

In  this  there  is  something  strange  enough.  If 
ever  a  writer  had  a  claim  to  be  held  sincere,  it  was 
this  man  of  genius,  whose  heart  was  at  once  austere 
and  simple.  Yet,  beyond  all  doubt,  not  everything 
in  his  writings  is  genuine.  Wordsworth  gives  him- 
self certain  airs;  he  has  manufactured  a  manner- 
ism ;  he  exaggerates  what  he  feels  ;  he  is  too  liberal 
of  his  own  fashions  of  thought  and  of  speech  ;  he 

1  [And  the  Konig  in  Thule?  and  Freudvoll iind leidvoU ?  and 
a  dozen  others  ?  —  Trans.] 


WOEDSWOKTH   AND   MODERN   POETKY       203 

appears  in  a  guise  which  is  certainly  his  own,  but 
of  which  he  has,  nevertheless,  made  up  the  outlines 
and  studied  the  expression.  He  is  naïf;  but  his 
naivete  often  looks  calculated.  His  enthusiasm 
for  nature,  however  deep  and  real  it  be,  becomes 
now  and  then  declamatory.  For  instance,  take  the 
ode  which  I  have  mentioned,  and  in  which  the 
author  assumes  with  Plato  that  the  child  brings 
into  the  world  the  memory  of  an  anterior  existence. 
This  piece,  noble,  magnificent  as  it  is,  has  always 
seemed  to  me  to  ring  a  little  false.  We  can  hardly 
help  seeing  in  it  a  thesis  adopted  with. a  conscious- 
ness of  the  poetic  developments  of  which  it  is  capa- 
ble, rather  than  a  serious  belief  of  the  author's.  I 
may  say  as  much  of  his  ecstasies  over  a  fawn,  of 
his  tenderness  à  propos  of  a  girl  he  has  met  in  the 
mountains  :  — 

Thee  neither  know  I,  nor  thy  peers, 
And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

All  Wordsworth's  faults  have  the  same  source, 
and  are  of  the  same  kind.  He  has  an  ideal  of  life, 
and  involuntarily  adjusts  his  pioral  attitude  to  it  ; 
he  has  an  ideal  of  art,  and  exaggerates  the  style  he 
admires.  His  habit  of  seeking  and  finding  lessons" 
in  the  smallest  incidents  of  his  walks  passes  into 
didactic  mania.  He  draws  morals  from  everything, 
delivers  sermons  on  every  text  he  meets.  Nor  is 
this  preaching  vein  by  any  means  always  a  poetical 
one.  We  seem  sometimes  to  hear  the  psalmody  of 
the  conventicle  :  — 


T, 


204         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

(  )h  !  there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 

That  shall  lack  a  timely  end, 
If  but  to  God  we  turn  and  ask 

Of  llini  to  be  our  friend. 

That  is  like  one  of  Watts's  liymns.^      ^"■' 

The  titles  of  Wordsworth's  poems  often  bear  a 
trace  of  his  moralizing  tendency.  There  is  one 
called  "Anecdote  for  Fathers,  Showing  how  the 
Practice  of  Lying  may  be  taught  "  ;  another  —  an 
admirable  inece,  by  the  way  —  bears  the  stupid 
title,  "Influence  of  Natural  Objects  in  Calling 
forth  and  Strengthening  the  Imagination  in  Boy- 
hood and  early  Youth."  Wordsworth  is  not 
exactly  lacking  in  wit  -,  he  has  sometimes  touches 
of  gaiety  and  of  acuteness,  but  he  has  no  sense  of 
the  ridiculous. 

The  contradiction  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  his 
work  is,  that  while  he  shows  in  it  the  truth  and 
spontaneity  which  befit  a  poet  of  nature,  he  is  at 
the  same  time  conscious  of  his  part.  He  has  a  sys- 
tem, and  deliberately  takes  up  the  position  of  an 
apostle  ;  his  prefaces  are  filled  with  an  ostentatious 
purpose  of  bringing  men's  minds  back  to  simplicity 
in  subject  and  language.     He  is  the  professor  of  a 

1  [And' not  very  unlike  these  verses: 

Sur  cette  terre  ou  tu  veux  que  j'habite, 
O  mon  Sauveur,  mon  Dieu,  je  suis  à  toi  ; 
Et  dans  le  Ciel  oh  ta  grâce  m'invite 

Encore  à  toi,  toujours  à  toi. 
The  author  of   which,  M.  Grc'ard    tells  us,  was  Edmond 
Scherer.  —  Trans.] 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN    POETRY        205 

Poetic  which  consists  in  discovering  beauties  in 
the  commonest  objects  of  nature,  lessons  in  the 
humblest  beings,  and  in  clothing  these  subjects 
with  a  new  interest,  in  restoring  them  to  the 
domain  of  art  by  dint  of  intense  observation  and 
forcible  expression.  And  it  is  certain  that  Words- 
worth, as  far  as  he  is  concerned,  has  actually  real- 
ized this  programme.  But,  unluckily,  he  has  not 
only  reached  his  end,  he  has  gone  beyond  it.  The 
simplicity  of  his  subjects  and  of  his  manner  too 
often  passes  into  triviality,  the  simplicity  of  his 
style  into  poverty.  He  showers  puerile  anecdotes 
on  us  ;  he  tells  us  stories  of  dogs,  he  narrates  what 
a  little  girl  said  to  her  sheep.  He  affects  not 
merely  an  enthusiasm  for  flowers  and  birds,  but  a 
predilection  for  beggars,  idiots,  and  cripples.  The 
lower  a  being  is  in  the  scale,  the  more  he  labors  to 
awake  our  sympathy  in  its  favor.  There  is  no  detail 
so  minute,  so  insignificant,  that  he  does  not  delight 
in  taking  note  of  it.  If  he  tells  of  a  summer  walk, 
he  must  needs  speak  of  the  cloud  of  insects  which 
surround  his  face  and  follow  him  as  he  advances. 

It  is  easy  to  understand  that,  with  all  his  efforts, 
he  does  not  always  succeed  in  making  such  themes 
poetical.  Prose  breaks  in  against  his  will.  He  has 
passages  where  matter  and  form  vie  in  common- 
place, as  this  on  the  career  of  a  mauvais  sujet  :  — 

His  genius  and  his  moral  fame 
Were  thus  impaired,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires  ; 


206         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

A  man  who,  without  self-control, 
Would  SL'fk  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

What  a  pity  to  find  verses  like  these  (and  they  are 
not  rare  in  Wordsworth)  in  a  great  poet  !  The 
exaggeration  and  the  affectation  with  which  I  re- 
proach liim  have,  moreover,  done  him  infinite  harm. 
We  are  able  now  to  disting-uish  the  lasting  beauties 
of  his  work  from  the  parts  of  it  w^iere  his  system 
of  view  has  hurt  the  sincerity  of  his  inspiration  ; 
but  for  a  great  many  years  he  was  chiefly  famous 
by  the  absurder  sides  of  his  pastorals,  and  by  the 
parodies  to  which  they  lent  themselves.  It  hap- 
pened to  AVordsworth  in  England  as  with  us  to 
the  poet  wdio  had  already  long  since  written  the 
*' Nuits,"  while  men  still  obstinately  refused  to  see 
in  him  aught  but  the  author  of  the  "  Ballade  à  la 
Lune." 

VII 

Let  us  leave  these  imperfections  and  faults  alone, 
and  seek  nothing  in  Wordsworth  but  what,  in  sum, 
he  is — one  of  the  poets  who  have  best  loved,  felt, 
and  rendered  nature.  Now  there  are  many  ways 
of  loving  her.  There  is  that  of  youth.  The  young 
man  loves  nature  as  a  field  open  to  the  exercise  of 
his  energies.  To  grasp  the  world,  the  great  world, 
to  succeed  to  the  inheritance  of  oneself  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  one's  own  strength,  is  the  highest 
delight  at  this  time  of  life.     And  so  country  pleas- 


WORDSWOETH   AND  MODERN  POETRY      207 

ures  stand,  then,  in  the  ratio  of  the  play  they  offer 
to  activity,  of  the  excitement  into  which  they 
throw  the  animal  spirits.  Exercise  on  foot,  gallop- 
ing a  horse,  hunting,  swimming,  are  so  many  joys 
into  which  sun,  greenery,  the  tints  of  wood  and 
field,  no  doubt  enter  to  some  extent,  and  contribute 
to  the  intoxication  of  days  of  delicious  fatigue  ;  but 
nevertheless  they  remain  as  but  the  background  of 
the  picture.  It  is  the  opportunity  of  asserting 
himself  that  the  young  man  seeks  in  nature. 
When  he  comes  to  the  serious  part  of  life,  when  he 
is  absorbed  in  his  task,  and  in  the  struggle  for 
existence  which  is  now  carried  on  at  such  close 
quarters,  man  does  not  yet  necessarily  lose  his 
taste  for  nature,  but  what  he  now  asks  of  her  is 
repose.  He  loves  her  for  the  contrast  which  she 
makes  with  the  noisy  town,  with  absorption  in 
material  interests,  with  the  meanness  of  rivalries, 
the  disturbance  of  passion.  If  only  the  soul  is  not 
world-worn  in  the  great  game  of  hazard  which  each 
man  plays  against  society,  there  is  no  wandering  in 
the  alleys  of  a  great  park,  no  sitting  on  the  brink 
of  a  quiet  pond,  or  in  sight  of  a  vast  champaign, 
without  the  sudden  feeling  of  a  kind  of  refresh- 
ment. The  calm  of  things  communicates  itself  to 
the  spirit  ;  we  fall  insensibly  into  unison  with  the 
universe  which  cares  so  little  for  what  agitates  us 
so  much.  Universal  order  brings  us  back  to  a 
juster  sentiment  of  reality.  Over  our  obstinate 
preoccupations,  our  harassing  regrets,  our  stubborn 


208         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

anxieties,  our  disgusts,  our  jealousies,  our  hatreds, 
over  all  the  workings  of  a  brain  on  fire,  the  contem- 
plation of  nature  drops  an  appeasement  which  be- 
longs to  nothing  else.  As  happened  of  old  with 
the  Master's  touch,  there  comes  forth  from  it  a 
virtue  which  heals. 

For  the  old  man  himself,  or  for  him  in  similar 
plight,  the  sick  man  whose  days  are  numbered, 
nature  still  has  her  charm,  a  sadness  of  special 
savor,  a  sweetness  dashed  with  bitter  :  — 

Aux  regards  d'un  mourant  le  soleil  est  si  beau  ! 

There  is  a  strange  pathos  in  the  contrast  between 
the  unchangeableness  of  things  and  the  feebleness 
of  the  thinking  being  who  contemplates  them. 
There  is  perceived  at  such  times,  in  the  aspects  of 
the  country,  as  it  were  a  bitter  pleasure  mingled 
with  resignation  and  disdain.  A  melancholy 
triumph  is  felt  in  the  inequality  of  the  fight  in 
which  we  are  succumbing,  in  the  paradox  of  the 
defeat,  in  the  simultaneous  superiority  over  what  is 
lasting  which  is  given  us  by  the  consciousness  of 
our  own  caducity.  We  taste  the  strange  and  hor- 
rid joy  of  having  gauged  the  worth  of  life,  and 
of  feeling  ourselves  and  the  world  of  thought  and 
j)assion  we  carry  in  our  breasts  as  vain  as  the  rip- 
ple which  forms  on  the  surface  of  the  lake,  and 
vanishes  with  the  same  puff  of  air  that  caused  it. 

Young  men  see  in  nature  an  empire  to  be  over- 
run ;  men  of  mature  years  seek  in  her  a  truce  to 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY      209 

inner  troubles  ;  old  men  find  in  her  a  funereal  con- 
solation. But  the  artist?  Is  it  not  for  herself 
that  he  loves  her  ?  Is  it  not  on  her  alone  that  he 
lives  ?  Is  he  not  solely  enamoured  of  her  beauty  ? 
Does  he  not  set  his  whole  ambition  in  comprehend- 
ing and  expressing  her,  in  feeling  and  translating 
her,  in  entering  into  all  her  moods,  seizing  all  her 
aspects,  penetrating  all  her  secrets  ?  Who,  if  it  be 
not  the  artist,  can  flatter  himself  with  beinsr  initi- 
ated  in  the  mysteries  of  the  great  Goddess  ? 

And  yet  it  is  not  so.  What  the  artist  pursues  is 
not  so  much  nature  as  the  effects  to  which  she 
lends  herself,  as  the  picturesque,  as  art.  If  he 
throws  himself  at  her  feet,  it  is  but  to  hasten  else- 
where and  boast  of  the  favors  he  has  received.  The 
artist  is  a  man  who  has  the  rare  and  fatal  gift  of 
doubling  himself,  of  feeling  with  half  his  soul  and 
employing  the  other  half  in  telling  what  he  feels  ; 
a  man  who  has  experienced  emotion,  but  who  has 
afterwards  slain  it  in  his  bosom  in  order  the  better 
to  take  it  as  a  model,  and  sketch  it  at  his  leisure  in 
strokes  which  are  a  transfiguration. 

Is  there  not  something  of  a  similar  kind  in  many 
a  religious  conception  of  nature  ?  Does  not,  for 
instance,  the  theist  also  look  at  her  from  the  out- 
side, as  at  an  object  which  is  exterior  and  foreign 
to  himself?  He  thinks  to  exalt  her  dignity  by 
making  her  come  from  the  hands  of  the  Supreme 
Artificer,  and  he  does  but  strip  her  of  her  proper 
life.     The  watchmaker  is  skilful,  a  wonder-worker, 


210         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

omnipotent;  but  the  watch  is,  after  all,  only  a 
masterpiece  of  mechanism.  Keligious  anthropo- 
mor})hism  carries  within  it  a  contradiction  which 
secretly  gnaws  it,  a  soulless  Universe  and  an  un- 
substantial God,  a  dead  Universe  and  a  God  of 
abstraction. 

The  sentiment  of  nature  in  Wordsworth  does  not 
exactly  resemble  any  of  the  kinds  which  I  have  de- 
scribed.      "  Wordsworth's   poetry,"  says  Matthew 
Arnold,    "  is   great   because    of    the  extraordinary  V 
power  with  which  Wordsworth  feels  the  joy  offered     ' 
us  in  nature,  the  joy  offered  to  us  in  the  simple    ' 
elementary  affections  and  duties,  and  because  of 
the  extraordinary  power  with  which,  in  case  after 
case,  he  shows  us  this  joy  and  renders  it  so  as  to 
make  us  share  it."     This  definition  suits  the  Words- 
worth of  the  pastorals  ;  it  is  not  enough  to  char- 
acterize the  poet's  highest  inspirations,  those   of 
the  verses  composed  on  the  banks  of  the  Wye,  of 
the  Platonic  ode,  or  of  the  admirable  piece  begin- 
ning 

Wisdom  and  spirit  of  the  Universe. 

I  should  myself  rather  say  that  Wordsworth  is  the 
poet  who  has  most  profoundly  felt  and  most  power- 
fully expressed  the  commerce  of  the  soul  with  na- 
ture, the  dialogue  of  the  human  mind  with  the 
spirit  of  things,  the  "  obstinate  questionings  "  of 
which  he  himself  speaks,  the  vague  disquietudes  of 
a  creature  moving  in  "  worlds  not  realized,"  the  high 


WORDSWORTH   AKD   MODERN   POETRY       211 

instincts  which,  surprise  ourselves.  If  the  view  of 
the  humblest  flower  at  his  feet  softens  his  mood,  it 
is  because  it  suggests  to  him 

Thoughts  that  do  often  he  too  deep  for  tears. 

Wordsworth's  love  for  nature,  then,  is  not  that 
of  the  man  of  culture  who  admires  a  landscape  ; 
nor  is  it  that  of  the  man  of  speculation  who  lets 
himself  float  on  the  universal  current.  He  brinars 
to  it  something  more  intimate  than  the  one,  some- 
.  thing  more  personal  than  the  other.  True,  nature  is 
for  him  the  great  mystery,  but  she  is  a  living  mys- 
tery ;  not  an  abstraction  or  a  concept,  but  a  being, 
a  soul. 

The  being  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air, 
That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves. 

He  never  generalizes  her,  never  allows  her  to  be 
attenuated  into  a  mere  idea;  on  the  contrary,  he 
individualizes  her  in  every  one  of  her  manifesta- 
tions, the  wood,  the  rock,  the  torrent.  And  he 
recognizes  her  sovereignty  ;  he  interrogates  her  as 
an  oracle  ;  he  gathers  up  her  inspirations  like  the 
accents  of  a  higher  wisdom.  Science  for  him  con- 
sists in  endeavoring  to  decipher  her  enigmas, 
virtue  and  happiness  in  placing  oneself  under  her 
influence  and  setting  oneself  at  unison  with  her.  I 
know  no  one  but  Rousseau  and  Lamartine  to  compare 
with  him  in  point  of  this  submissive  and  passion- 
ate adoration.  Only,  Eousseau  introduces  into  it 
something  morbid,  and  Lamartine  fully  intends  to 


212         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

get  some  fine  melodious  verses  out  of  it.  Words- 
worth, for  liis  part,  has  a  healthy  soul,  and  never 
listens  to  himself  as  he  sings.  It  is  true  that  as  a 
compensation  Lamartine  has  more  tragedy  of  sen- 
,  timent,  and  a  greater  sublimity  of  expression.  He 
has  an  element  of  interior  drama  which  is  wanting 
to  Wordsworth.  Lamartine  is  the  greater  when, 
with  finger  raised  to  heaven,  he  bids  us  attend  to 
the  voices  from  on  high  :  — 

Adore  ici  le  Dieu  qu'adorait  Pytliagore, 
Prête  avec  lui  l'oreille  aux  célestes  concerts. 

He  is  more  pathetic  when  he  retraces   the  vain 
revolts  of  the  Childe  :  — 

Triomphe,  disait-il,  immortelle  nature  ! 

VIII 

The  whole  of  Wordsworth's  life  was  spent  in  the 
worship  of  nature,  and  his  works  are  nothing  else 
than  the  celebration  of  the  mysteries  of  this  relig- 
ion. He  must  not,  therefore,  be  confused  with 
the  descriptive  poets,  even  though,  his  works 
abound  in  descriptions,  and  though  these  descrip- 
tions are  fine  and  often  picturesque.  He  had  an 
observing  eye  ;  he  seizes  the  aspect  of  objects,  the 
distinctive  character  of  things,  and  he  marks  them 
off  with  precise  and  personal  strokes.  In  especial 
he  has  admirable  sketches  of  his  own  country  — 
Westmoreland.  All  the  same,  we  are,  with  him, 
a    hundred   leagues    away    from    the    descriptive 


WOKDS WORTH  AND  MODERN  POETRY   213 

school,  Tvhether  of  the  okler  or  the  newer  variety. 
Description  in  Wordsworth  is  not  there  for  its  own 
sake,  intended  to  show  the  artist's  craftsmanship, 
but  is  bound  up  with  tlie  impression  which  objects 
make  upon  him  as  a  man,  with  the  emotions  that 
they  arouse,  the  sentiments  they  inspire,  the  influ- 
ence they  exercise.  For  Wordsworth,  once  more, 
does  not  love  nature  as  a  painter  occupied  with  ; 
line  and  color,  but  as  a  devotee.  He  approaches  her  ;/ 
with  a  pious  intention  ;  his  love  for  her  is  a  charm 
with  which  he  saturates  himself,  a  power  to  which 
he  gives  himself  up,  a  life  which  he  aspires  to  live. 
Wordsworth  is  a  hermit  who  listens  to  the 
heavenly  voices.  Instead  of  seeking  an  intellec- 
tual solution  of  the  great  problem  of  the  Universe,  ^ 
he  trusts  to  the  intuitions  opened  by  nature,  or,  \\ 
better  still,  to  the  moral  disposition  she  produces, 
the  serenity  she  communicates,  the  harmony  she 
sheds  in  the  heart.  The  intensity  of  the  senti-  ^  \ 
ments  she  arouses  is  an  all-sufficing  revelation. 
Intimate  emotion,  secret  ravishment,  silent  enthu- 
siasm, have  need  neither  of  proofs  nor  of  reason- 
ing. We  must  also  note  that  Wordsworth  makes 
man  fall  back  into  nature  as  one  of  the  elements  of 
which  she  is  composed.  The  peasant,  the  moun- 
taineer, the  poor  and  their  ways  of  life,  form  part 
of  the  total  effect  of  the  scenes  he  draws  and  the 
feelings  he  evokes.  They  are,  so  to  say,  the  figures 
of  his  landscape,  and  are  only  there  to  play  their 
part  in  the  general  impression.     Such  is  the  mean- 


214        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

ing  of  Wordsworth's  narrative  poetry.  His  rustic 
idyls  set  before  themselves  not  so  much  the  inter- 
esting of  the  reader  in  a  scene  as  the  acquainting 
him  with  the  hidden  aspects  of  universal  existence, 
with  the  manifestations  of  wisdom  and  goodness, 
which  make,  in  the  poet's  eyes,  the  true  meaning 
of  the  world.  The  unity  of  his  work  lies  in  the 
tender  interest  which  he  takes  in  everything  that 
lives,  from  the  shrub  in  the  hedges  to  the  blind 
and  the  lame  on  the  highways.  As  for  towns,  he 
would  fain  ignore  them.  He  holds  them  as  a 
jarring  note  which  it  is  specially  necessary  to 
merge  and  disperse  in  the  general  harmony  of 
creation. 

Wordsworth  adored  nature  from  his  youth  up, 
and  he  loves  to  recall  the  intoxication  of  his  first 
impressions,  the  joy  which  the  rainbow  made  him 
feel,  the  solemn  beauty  of  the  country  in  the 
midst  of  which  he  and  his  companions  disported 
themselves,  the  contrast  between  the  noisy  games 
and  shouts  of  youth  re-echoed  by  the  rocks,  and 
the  approaching  silence  of  the  night  :  — 

Wliile  the  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound,  etc. 

He  described  these  emotions  of  childhood  with  still 
more  fondness  in  the  admirable  verses,  composed 
in  1798,  on  the  banks  of  the  Wye.  All  the  poet  is 
in  this  piece,  where  depth  of  sentiment  has  found 
perfect  expression,  and  which  is  almost  sufficient 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN   POETRY       215 

when  translated  to  give  a  knowledge  of  \Yords- 
worth  and  of  his  genius.^  Later,  his  love  for 
nature  took  a  different,  but  not  a  stronger,  form  j 
and  he  delights  in  connecting  his  present  joys  with 
those  of  his  infancy,  in  linking,  as  he  says,  his 
days  each  to  each  by  natural  piety.  If  things  had 
once  a  freshness  and  a  splendor  which  he  feels  no 
more,  the  glory  of  a  dream  which  vanished  at  the 
waking,  they  have  in  compensation  an  attraction 
which  was  not  known  to  youth.  The  experience 
of  life  opens  the  heart  to  a  kind  of  affection  for  all 
created  things,  even  to  'Hhe  meanest  flower  that 
blows."-  Thus  nature  acts  by  secret  but  benefi- 
cent sensations,  by  a  physical  calm  which  is 
always  ready  to  translate  itself  into  universal 
benevolence.  Wordsworth  owes  to  his  rural  remi- 
niscences 

In  hours  of  weariness  sensations  sweet 

Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart,  etc. 

That  is  fine,  but  I  half  think  that  I  prefer  the 
hymn  to  the  Spring  which  the  poet  addresses  to 
his  sister,  to  bid  her  join  him  in  a  country  excur- 
sion :  — 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  IMarch,  etc. 

Such  ideas  are  fundamental  ones  with  Words- 
worth.     iSTature  is  holy  and  she  sanctifies.      She 

1  [The  famous  passage  telling  how  "  the  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion."  —  Trajis.] 

2  [That  from    "The  Old   Cumberland    Beggar"    about  the 
"  spirit  and  pulse  of  good."  —  Trans.] 


21G         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITEKATUKE 

attunes  the  soul  to  herself,  and  thus  she  heals,  she 
consoles,  she  elevates.  She  breathes  indulgence 
and  tenderness.  We  have  but  to  give  ourselves 
up,  "in  a  wise  passiveness,"  to  her  influence,  to 
approach  her  with  a  humble  and  receptive  heart, 
to  regard  her  "  with  a  superstitious  eye  of  love." 
There  is  in  the  first  book  of  the  "  Excursion  "  a 
fine  passage  on  the  property,  possessed  by  the 
beauties  of  creation,  of  humanizing  man,  by  trans- 
porting him  into  a  calmer  and  loftier  region, 
whither  comes  neither  dislike  nor  disdain,  and 
where  the  only  form  of  blame  is  compassion.  But 
I  will  rather  cite  another  as  less  didactic  :  — 

Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her,  etc. 

Yet  the  religion  of  nature  has  still  profounder 
secrets.  If  she  is  wisdom  and  goodness,  nature  is 
also  understanding  and  revelation.  She  brings, 
besides  soul-health,  knowledge  ;  a  higher  knowl- 
edge, a  gnosis  which  mere  reasoning  cannot  reach. 
She  helps  us  to  penetrate  the  laws  of  the  Uni- 
verse's being.  It  was  not  often  that  Wordsworth 
permitted  himself  to  hint  at  these  utmost  heights 
of  his  thought,  at 

that  blessed  mood 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery,  etc. 

A  little  farther,  after  recalling  the  emotions  of 
childhood  in  the  verses  I  have  quoted  above,  he 
says  :  — 


WORDSWORTH   AND   MODERN    POETRY       217 

I  have  learned 
To  look  on  nature  not  as  in  the  hour,  etc.^ 

Here  we  have   what   is  highest  in  Wordsworth's 
thought,  as  well  as  sublimest  in  his  poetry. 

IX 

I  have  still  to  speak  of  Wordsworth's  poetical 
expression.  Not  that,  to  my  thinking,  the  diction 
of  a  poet  is  separable  from  his  thought  ;  it  would 
be  more  exact  to  say,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the 
one  is  the  soul  of  the  other,  and  constitutes  its 
personality.  Here,  more  than  anywhere  else,  the 
boundary  between  matter  and  form  is  a  mere 
abstraction.  Let  rhyme  be  the  proof  of  this. 
English  poetry  admits  blank  or  unrhymed  verse  ; 
but  the  difference  between  the  poetry  which  is 
rhymed  and  the  poetry  which  is  not  is  as  far  as 
possible  from  being  a  secondary  one.  I  would 
almost  affirm  that  it  is  a  difference  of  kind,  and  I 
do  not  want  any  other  example  of  this  than  Words- 
worth's own. 

Khyme  —  and  the  same  maybe  said  of  the  stanza 
or  the  strophe  —  is  the  natural  expression  of  lyrical 
inspiration.  As  often  as  there  is  in  the  poet's  soul 
a  livelier  movement  or  a  more  profound  emotion  he 
has  involuntary  recourse  to  musical  language,  to 
assonance  and  to  cadence.  "There  is  so  much 
analogy,"  says  Madame  de  Staël,  "between  physi- 

1  [All  these  latter  quotations  are  from  The  Wye,  —  Trans.'\ 


218         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

cal  and  moral  nature,  that  all  the  affections  of  the 
soul  have  an  inflection  of  voice  which  is  proper  to 
them  —  a  melody  in  words  which  is  in  accord  with 
the  meaning  of  the  words  themselves."  Take  away 
these  melodic  elements  on  the  pretext  that  they 
are  not  essential  to  the  thought,  and  you  will  see 
that  the  thought  itself  will  have  lost  its  character- 
istic quality.  All  Wordsworth^s  readers  know  his 
fine  verses  in  honor  of  Lord  Clifford,  the  shepherd 
to  whom  a  royal  decree  in  1485  restored  the  titles 
and  the  rank  of  his  ancestors  :  — 

His  daily  teachers  had  been  woods  and  rills, 
The  silence  that  is  in  the  starry  sky, 
The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

Why  does  the  literal  translation  ^  which  I  give 
of  these  verses  in  no  degree  render  their  striking 
beauty  ?  No  doubt  because  a  translation  always 
alters  the  physiognomy  of  the  original  by  making 
use  of  words  which  cannot  possibly  be  the  equiva- 
lents of  those  which  they  replace  ;  but  it  is  also 
because  the  translation  at  the  same  time  tampers 
with  the  musical  value  and  relation  of  the  words, 
because  it  preserves  neither  rhythm  nor   rhyme, 

1  [In  this  case  a  literal  retranslation  of  M.  Scherer's  "literal 
translation"  seems  suitable  and  indeed  necessary.  It  runs 
thus:  —  "  His  only  masters  had  been  the  woods  and  the  streams, 
the  silence  which  reigns  in  the  starry  skies,  the  sleep  which 
reigns  among  the  lonely  hills."  Of  course,  however,  even  this 
has  not  the  full  inequality  to  which  M.  Scherer  refers,  because 
some  of  the  "  musical  values  "  reappear  in  the  English.] 


WOKDS WORTH  AND  MODERN  POETRY   219 

because  tlie  sonorous  quality  is  no  longer  there. 
This  is  so  true  that  Wordsworth  himself  could  not 
have  written  the  passage  which  I  just  cited  in 
blank  verse.  The  effect  would  have  been  com- 
pletely different.  A  very  curious  thing  is  rhyme, 
and  very  complex  is  the  pleasure  which  it  procures 
us.  Men  do  not  like  to  acknowledge  how  great  a 
part  is  played  in  the  arts  by  the  mere  fact  of  a 
conquered  difficulty.     Yet  it  is  the  conquered  diffi-  .  > 

culty  which  produces  the  impression  of  surprise,  /\ 

and  it  is  surprise  which  produces  interest.  It  is 
the  unexpected  which  gives  the  feeling  of  the 
writer's  power.  The  expectation  of  the  reader  of 
poetry  is  perpetually  kept  on  the  alert  by  the  risks 
of  the  enterprise  which  he  is  contemplating.  He 
asks  himself  (unconsciously,  of  course)  at  each 
verse  how  the  author  will  manage  to  give  a  good 
account  of  the  phrase  within  the  conditions  of  the 
versification,  to  keep  the  natural  line  of  the  dis- 
course and  the  beauty  of  the  thought,  while  at  the 
same  time  observing  certain  despotic  rules  ;  how  he 
will  keep  up  the  supply  of  rhyme,  full  of  beauty, 
richness,  and  sonority,  without  sacrificing  reason  in 
the  slightest  degree.  If  the  poet  wins  this  kind  of 
wager,  if  his  verse  still  flows  freely,  if  his  turn  of 
words  is  happy  and  his  imagery  striking,  if  the 
assonance  ends  the  verse  as  though  of  its  own  ac- 
cord, without  an  effort,  adding  to  the  idea  instead 
of  subtracting  aught  from  it,  why  then  the  reader's 
pleasure    continually   increases.     His   expectation, 


220        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATUKE 

eacli  moment  fullilled  and  exceeded,  becomes  en- 
thusiasm —  an  enthusiam,  we  must  boldly  acknowl- 
edge, which  is  not  free  from  analogy  with  that 
excited  b}'  a  tour  de  force.  The  difference  is,  that 
here  an  intellectual  tour  deforce  is  in  question,  and 
that  the  joy  experienced  is,  when  all  is  said,  an 
intellectual  emotion.  The  i)oet  is  not  merely  an 
acrobat.  Still  the  paradox  is  none  the  less  there  ; 
and  the  sublimest  art,  the  profoundest  emotions, 
rest  on  conditions  which,  when  analyzed,  seem  a 
little  puerile. 

All  this  leads  me  to  draw  a  distinction  bet}veen 
the  rhymed  and  the  unrhymed  poems  of  Words- 
worth, a  distinction,  moreover,  coinciding  with  that 
which  I  have  already  set  up  between  his  narrative 
and  his  lyrical  pieces,  and  especially  between  his 
long  poems,  such  as  the  "  Excursion  "  and  the 
"Prelude,'^  and  the  little  pieces  which  are  in  all 
men's  memory.  Unquestionably,  the  first  are  not 
as  popular  as  the  second,  and  this  has  to  do  not 
merely  with  their  length.  They  are  a  little  heavy, 
a  little  monotonous,  and,  despite  their  incontesta- 
ble beauties,  it  is  hard  to  read  them  without  ennui. 
Something  of  this  same  ennui  has  finally  clung  to 
the  name  of  Wordsworth,  and  has  injured  his 
glory.  The  fact  is  that  our  poet,  when  he  writes 
without  the  help  or  the  restraints  of  rhyme,  is  sub- 
ject to  a  drawback  which  is  connected  with  his  sys- 
tem, and,  one  might  almost  say,  with  his  genius. 
Blank   verse,  which   is,  when   rightly  considered, 


WOEDSWOKTH   AND   MODEKN   POETEY       221 

only  caclenced  prose  —  which,  lacks  what  I  should 
call  the  dramatic  interest  of  the  poet's  struggle 
with  rhyme  —  needs  to  be  relieved  by  the  greatest 
intensity  of  thought  and  expression.  The  creative 
power  of  the  author  must  reinforce  the  poverty  of 
the  instrument  he  uses.  This  is  the  case,  for  in- 
stance, with  Milton,  whose  imagination  triumphs 
so  victoriously  both  over  the  ungrateful  character 
of  his  subject  and  over  the  monotony  inherent  in 
the  versification  he  has  chosen.  As  for  Words- 
worth, he  cuts  himself  off  from  this  resource.  He 
possesses,  at  a  pinch,  as  we  have  seen,  sublimity  of 
sentiment  and  of  language;  but  it  is  only  as  an  ex- 
ception, and  by  a  kind  of  infraction  of  his  principles. 
For  he  has  a  theory,  and,  what  is  more,  is  the  head 
of  a  school.  He  undertook  the  mission  of  rehabili-  \  ^  y, 
tating  simplicity,  as  well  in  tone  as  in  feeling.  He 
renounced  the  artificial  diction  of  the  classics,  their 
antitheses,  their  abundance  of  epithet  ;  attempting 
to  make  up  for  the  nakedness  of  his  form  by  the 
charm  of  an  absolutely  sincere  emotion,  and  by  the 
originality  of  an  absolutely  natural  language.  Un- 
luckily, his  success  is  not  invariable.  His  stories 
of  country  incidents  and  his  description  of  rustic 
scenes  did  not  always  admit  the  beauties  or  the 
ornaments  which  mischt  have  relieved  their  monot- 
ony,  and  the  consequence  is  that  Wordsworth's  \ 
poetry,  with  the  tendency  which  it  already  had  to  V'ii»--- 
the  prosaic,  sometimes  falls  bodily  into  it,  and  that 
chiefly  in  the  unrhymed  poems. 


222         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

Having  made  this  distinction  between  the  work 
of  our  author  in  his  prosaic  and  in  his  poetical 
style,  we  can  come  to  his  poetic  diction  in  the 
narrow  sense  of  the  word.  It  is  well  known  that 
in  this  respect  there  are  two  schools  among  con- 
temporary poets.  The  one  class  has  sincere  and 
genuine  feeling,  which  expresses  itself  in  a  fashion 
appropriate,  and  consequently  original.  Poetry, 
with  them,  goes  from  within  to  without,  from 
thought  to  expression.  With  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  first  business  is  not  profundity  of  senti- 
ment or  truth  of  idea,  but  rather  the  picturesque 
effect  possible  to  extract  from  the  subject.  This  is 
so  true  that  the  latter  class  does  not  even  recoil 
from  the  vulgar  or  the  ignoble,  provided  that  they 
find  in  either  material  for  descriptive  novelty. 
Poetry  in  their  work  goes  from  without  to  within  ; 
it  is  the  expression  which  has  to  give  value  to  the 
thought.  I  need  hardly  say  that  the  first  of  these 
two  manners  is  Wordsworth's.  His  feeling  is 
always  genuine,  and  his  expression  always  subordi- 
nated to  his  idea.  He  never  sacrifices  anything  to 
the  desire  of  showing  his  skill.  His  affectations  — 
for,  as  we  have  seen,  he  has  such  —  are  in  the 
other  direction;  they  come  from  the  desire  of 
remaining  simple  and  humble,  not  from  the  wish 
to  appear  a  clever  craftsman. 

I  have  just  distinguished  between  legitimate  art, 
which  only  speaks  because  it  has  something  to  say, 
and  art   become  ostentatious,  which  says  nothing 


WOPwDSWORTH  AND   MODERN   POETRY      223 

except  to  show  how  well  it  can  speak.  There  is  a 
final  distinction  to  draw,  this  time  between  desires 
which  are  equally  legitimate,  between  ancient  or 
classic  art,  which  attaches  itself  to  the  beauty  and 
nobility  of  things,  and  so  even  indulges  in  abstrac- 
tion of  individual  traits,  and  modern  art,  which,  on 
the  other  hand,  delights  in  throwing  up  the  particu- 
lar physiognomy,  the  characteristic  feature,  of  the 
model  furnished  to  it  by  nature.  There  is  this 
remarkable  thing  about  Wordsworth,  that  he  unites 
the  two  methods.  His  poetry  is  distinguished,  and 
that  to  a  rare  degree,  by  the  interpénétration  of  the 
two  elements  which  are  mingled  in  different  propor- 
tions in  the  temperament  of  all  true  artists,  the 
perception  of  the  personal  and  real  life  of  things, 
and  the  sense  of  the  general  signification  which 
idealizes  them. 

Such  contradictions  are  proper  to  rich  natures. 
Wordsworth,  the  prolific  and  discursive  poet  who 
expands  himself  in  slow  and  boundless  strides,  is 
the  same  poet  who  condenses  his  thought  in  admir- 
able sonnets.  We  shall  find  the  dreamer,  who 
seems  to  have  no  eye  but  for  natural  objects,  able 
to  define  the  genius  of  a  Burns  or  a  Milton  in  a  few 
words  of  rare  felicity.  The  first  verse  of  his  mag- 
nificent sonnet  addressed  to  the  author  of  "  Para- 
dise Lost  "  — 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  star  and  dwelt  apart  — 
has  always  seemed   to  me  admirable  at  once  for 


224         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITEllATURE 

exactness  and  for  majesty.  There  is  something 
very  special  in  the  delicacy  of  the  characterization 
joined  to  the  sublimity  of  the  image. 

Wordsworth  is  inexhaustible  in  passages  which 
depict  now  the  scenes  of  nature,  now  the  emotions 
to  which  those  scenes  give  rise.  And  the  proof  of 
the  fidelity  with  which  he  translates  his  feeling, 
the  proof  that  his  fashion  of  speech  has  something 
indefinably  definite  which  forces  itself  on  the  reader, 
is  that  many  of  his  verses  have  passed  into  current 
and,  so  to  speak,  proverbial  quotation.  Pie  is  an 
attentive  observer,  his  emotion  is  sincere,  and, 
finally,  he  has  the  faculty  of  expression,  the  divine 
part  of  the  art  of  writing.  And  so  there  comes 
about  in  him  the  perfect  fusion  of  the  landscape,  of 
the  feeling  inspired  by  this  landscape,  and  of  the 
trait  by  which  the  whole  is  expressed  :  — 

At  length  towards  the  cottage  I  returned 

Fondly,  and  traced  with  interest  more  mild 

That  secret  spirit  of  humanity 

Which,  'mid  the  calm  oblivious  tendencies 

Of  nature,  'mid  her  plants,  and  weeds,  and  flowers, 

And  silent  overgrowings  still  survived. 

The  Excursion. 

Never  has  there  been  expressed  as  a  whole,  with 
such  puissant  simplicity,  and  with  plasticity  so 
sovereign,  the  whole  gamut  of  sentiments  which 
nature  awakes,  from  the  thoughts 

whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  horn  for  immortality, 


WOPwDSWORTH   AND    MODERN   POETRY      225 

to  the  inner   ravishment,  the   secret   enthusiasm, 
experienced  by  man 

■when  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 
In  love  and  holy  passion. 

I  hope  I  have  given  some  idea  of  "Wordsworth's 
merits.  Taking  him  where  he  is  pure  and  without 
blemish  —  that  is  to  say,  somewhere  half-way  be- 
tween his  deliberate  simplicity,  between  his  propen- 
sities of  a  somewhat  didactic  kind,  and  between  the 
lyrism,  also  too  conscious  and  slightly  declamatory, 
of  the  great  odes  —  you  find  something  of  alto- 
gether superior  quality.  Wordsworth  is  a  very 
great  poet,  and  at  the  same  time  one  of  those  who 
lend  themselves  best  to  everyday  intercourse  —  a 
puissant  and  beneficent  writer  who  elevates  us  and 
makes  us  happy.  We  must  not  be  astonished  if 
his  renown  has  passed  through  vicissitudes  of  admi- 
ration and  disdain,  for  his  work  is  certainly  unequal. 
But  we  must  also  not  be  astonished  if,  after  these 
vicissitudes,  he  is  in  the  way  of  taking  rank  among 
the  classics  of  his  country  ;  for  his  beauties  are  of 
those  which  time  consecrates  instead  of  aging* 
tbom.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  the  selection  of 
his  poems  published  by  ]\Ir.  Matthew  Arnold,  and 
the  attention  thus  recalled  to  him,  serve  to  fix  his 
place  definitely  in  the  heaven  of  British  glories. 
If  Shakespeare,  as  I  hold,  remains  absolutely  and 
forever  peerless,  Wordsworth  seems  to  me  to  come 
after  Milton;  decidedly,  I  think,  below  him,  but 
still  first  after  him.  He  is  of  the  stuff  whereof  the 
immortals  are  made. 


X 

THOMAS  CARLYLE. 

Carlyle  has  written  a  great  deal,  and  in  very 
different  styles.  There  are  some  among  his  works 
which  belong  to  pure  literature  :  and  these  are  the 
earliest  in  date,  the  "Life  of  Schiller,"  and  the 
critical  articles  which  the  author  contributed  to 
reviews  and  collected  later.  Then  come  the  great 
historical  compositions  on  the  "  French  Eevolu- 
tion,"  on  "  Cromwell,"  and  on  "  Frederick  the 
Great."  The  fixed  ideas  which  are  customary  with 
the  writer,  and  which  appear  in  all  these  works, 
found  political  and  social  application  in  the  volume 
on  "  Chartism,"  in  "  Past  and  Present,"  and  in  the 
"Latter-day  Pamphlets."  As  for  the  directer  ex- 
pression of  Carlyle's  philosophy,  we  must  go  to 
"Heroes  and  Hero-worship"  for  that,  adding,  if 
we  please,  "  Sartor  Eesartus,"  which  is  a  philo- 
sophical sally,  as  well  as  a  literary  fantasy,  and  the 
"Life  of  John  Sterling,"  in  which  the  author  has 
put  much  of  liimself. 

Thus  Carlyle  touches  on  very  different  subjects, 

and  yet  in  hardly  any  writer  is  there  more  unity. 

In  every  work  I  have  mentioned  there  is  the  same 

special  manner  of  feeling  and  of  expression.     I  am 

226 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  227 

very    far    from    denying   that   this   originality   is 
sought  for,  is  deliberate  both  in  matter  and  form. 
On  the  contrary,  I  shall  have  to  insist  on  the  feat- 
ure of  parti  pris,  which  we  cannot  fail  to  recognize 
in  Carlyle  without  deceiving  ourselves.     But  the 
fact   remains,  all  the  same,  that  the   writer   is   a 
thinker,  and  that  his  teaching  has  founded  a  school. 
As  for  bringing  his  ideas  under  any  precise  formula, 
we  must  not  think  of  it.     The  very  property   of 
Carlyle^s  ideas  is  to  set  at  defiance  definitions,  dis- 
tinctions, all  the  logical  and  critical  apparatus  in 
use  with  common  folk,  in  order  to  take  refuge  in 
the  regions  of  imagination  and  sentiment.     Carlyle 
is  a  mystic.     The  world  appears  to  him  as  clothed 
in  obscurity  and  bristling  with  problems.     He  can 
see  nothing  but  abysses.      Nature,    history,  man, 
everything  gives  him  matter  for  wonder.     His  cus- 
tomary mental  attitude  is  veneration  :  and  to  adore 
is  necessary  to  him.     This  taste  for  the  mysterious 
and  the  sublime  lends  itself  necessarily  to  exagger- 
ation.    Humanity  is  engaged  in  a  titanic  struggle 
between  good  and  evil.    The  littlenesses  of  real  life 
become  a  spectacle  at  once  grotesque  and  hateful. 
Modern  society  is  abandoned  in  the  lump  to  plati- 
tude and  lying.     The  nations  seek  their  welfare  in 
constitutions,  in  balancings  of  power,  in  parliamen- 
tary talk,  in  the  devices  of  so-called  liberalism  and 
so-called  progress,  while  there  is  nothing  real  and 
true  in  the  way  of  government  but  the  supremacy 
of  the  strong  man.     The  hero  and  the  hero's  right 


228         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

—  that  is  the  sum  of  Carlyle's  thought  of  human 
things.  He  must  have  Mahomets,  Cromwells, 
Fredericks,  Napoleons,  the  men  who  force  their 
way  because  they  are  the  genuine  and  direct  prod- 
ucts of  nature.  It  will  be  seen  here  what  is  the 
link  between  Carlyle's  theory  of  heroism  and  his 
general  views  of  the  world.  The  man  destined  by 
providence,  with  the  superior  gifts  which  mark  him 
out  for  sovereignty,  is  a  natural  reality  set  against 
social  fictions,  and  at  the  same  time  one  of  the 
mysterious  forces  of  the  universe  into  the  contem- 
plation of  which  our  author  loves  to  plunge. 

If  it  is  natural  to  refer  Carlyle's  work  to  the 
thought  by  vv^hich  it  is  inspired,  it  would  be  unjust 
to  the  author  to  insinuate  that  the  whole  merit  of 
his  books  lies  in  the  mystical  preaching  which  we 
have  just  described.  There  is  in  him,  speaking  of 
him  as  a  man  of  letters,  an  historian,  and  there  is 
also  a  satirist.  The  historian  is  remarkable  for  con- 
scientious research,  and  for  the  lively  manner  in 
which  he  seizes  and  renders  the  physiognomy  of 
events.  His  power  is  beyond  dispute.  Through  all 
his  oddities  there  appears  the  gift  of  evoking  the 
past,  of  making  it  live,  of  making  out  of  it  a  drama 
which  cannot  be  seen  without  emotion.  The  truth 
is  that  Carlyle,  in  spite  of  his  would-be  philosophy, 
possesses  a  talent  which  is  essentially  dramatic 
and  picturesque.  In  the  midst  of  all  his  moralizing 
sallies,  of  his  habit  of  denouncing,  adjuring,  and 
objurgating,  we  see  that  his  object  in  his  histories 


THOMAS    CAELYLE  229 

-^as  but  to  tell  liis  story,  and  to  tell  it  so  as  to 
please.  He  is  an  artist,  and  has  done  artist's  work. 
His  airs  of  grandeur  and  solemnity  are  but  part  of 
Ms  style  as  a  painter.  They  are  but  a  refinement 
—  I  had  almost  said  a  set-off  or  seasoning. 

In  two  or  three  of  his  works  Carlyle  is  a  histo- 
rian ;  he  is  a  satirist  in  all.  His  idealist  prepos- 
sessions, as  I  showed  just  now,  peep  through 
everywhere,  in  the  shape  of  perpetual  and  bitter 
denunciation  flung  on  the  men  and  the  things  of 
our  time.  He  is  inexhaustible  in  denouncing  the 
lack  of  manliness  and  sincerity,  the  meanness  and 
the  slavishness,  of  the  world  which  surrounds 
him.  There  is  a  word  which  is  always  recur- 
ring from  his  pen,  as  summing  up  the  character  of 
the  age  —  the  word  "sham,"  an  untranslatable 
expression,  but  one  which  designates  at  once  false 
appearances,  vain  pretensions,  lying  conventions, 
and  social  hypocrisies.  Carlyle  has  taken  up  a 
mission  ;  he  is  a  prophet,  the  prophet  of  sincerity. 
This  sincerity  or  earnestness  he  would  have  applied  \ 
everywhere  ;  he  makes  it  the  law,  the  healthy  and 
holy  law,  of  art,  of  morals,  of  politics.  The  exalta- 
tion of  force  into  something  divine,  whereof  we 
spoke  above,  is  nothing  but  a  result  of  the  need 
which  the  writer  feels  of  going  back  in  every  case  to 
the  first  and  natural  conditions.  What  is  there,  as  a 
fact,  more  real  than  power  ?  What  more  certain  than 
that  action  which  makes  itself  felt  whether  we  will 
or  no  —  than  the  personal  authority,  it  may  be  of 
the  man  of  genius,  it  may  be  of  the  sword  ? 


230         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITER  AT  UIIE 

PCCarlyle,  however,  never  understood  or  tried  to 
junderstand  his  time.  >lle  is  like  women  and  chil- 
dren who  know  no  other  form  of  expressing  judg- 
ment except  "  I  like  it  "  or  "  I  hate  it."  He  is  hurt 
in  his  sympathies  (which  are  secret,  and  what  is 
more  very  narrow),  and  he  avenges  himself  by 
wrath  or  ridicule.  Carlyle,  who  has  been  put  for- 
ward as  a  sage,  is  the  very  reverse  of  one.  "  What 
is  the  good,"  as  a  witty  woman  once  said,  "  of  los- 
ing your  temper  with  things  in  general,  when  you 
know  that  it  produces  not  the  slightest  effect  on 
them  ?"  .,  But  Carlyle  does  not  feel  the  inevitable- 
ness  of  the  general  transformation  which  we  are 
witnessing,  of  that  raising  of  the  social  level  which 
indeed  implies  the  lowering  of  the  heights,  which 
sends  mediocrity  to  the  surface,  which  hands  over 
the  world  and  the  government  of  the  world  to 
everybody  —  that  is  to  say,  to  somebody  ignorant 
enough  and  vulgar  enough  —  but  which  after  all 
has  the  one  pretty  sufficient  justification  that  it  is 
fated.  Let  us  grant  that  great  art  is  no  longer 
possible  ;  that  literature  is  condemned  to  decadence  ; 
that  the  time  for  fine  things,  things  distinguished, 
exquisite  things,  is  past  beyond  recall  ;  that  the 
guidance  of  society  henceforward  belongs  to  heads 
so  coarse  and  to  minds  so  uncultivated  that  our 
traditional  sentiments  feel  a  sort  of  consterna- 
tion. Let  us  admit  that  we  are  on  the  way  to 
an  equality  at  once  quite  rational  and  hopelessly 
uninteresting.       No    doubt    this    is    disagreeable 


THOMAS   CARLYLE  231 

enougli  to  the  man  whose  roots,  in  virtue  of  his 
early  education,  dive  down  to  a  different  civiliza- 
tion. But  is  it  not  a  little  childish  to  celebrate  the 
obsequies  of  the  past  so  noisily  ?  The  wheel  of 
history  has  crushed  many  a  past  before. 

One  of  the  numerous  minor  services  which  the  ; 
Hegelian  philosophy  has  done  is  to  have  suppressed 
the  distinction  between  matter  and  form.  Every 
matter  has  its  special  form,  and  every  form  sup- 
poses its  appropriate  matter.  But  the  two  things 
have  never  been  in  more  obvious  relation  than  in 
the  case  of  Carlyle's  thought  and  his  style.  I  am 
unable  when  I  read  him  to  get  rid  of  the  idea  that 
he  has  a  settled  attitude  —  to  put  it  more  bluntly, 
an  affectation.  There  is  something  histrionic  in 
his  incessant  declamation  against  the  cant  of  the 
age.  His  vast  mystical  views  on  the  unknown 
that  wraps  us  round,  and  the  nniverse  which  lies 
beyond  our  sight,  on  the  reverential  spirit  in  which 
we  must  contemplate  the  problems  of  existence, 
have  to  me  (I  hope  his  devotees  will  pardon  me  !  ) 
an  air  of  posing.  If  it  is  not  the  result  of  reflec- 
tion and  calculation,  it  at  least  looks  like  it.  Now 
it  is  exactly  the  same  with  the  style  in  which  these 
thoughts  are  rendered.  It  is  a  dialect  which  the 
writer  has  fashioned  on  purpose,  and  not  without 
knowing  what  he  was  about.  For  he  owed  a  great 
part  of  his  success  to  it.  Carljde's  vocabulary  is 
made  up  of  long  compounds  in  the  German  style, 
of  unusual  forms,  of  comparatives  and  superlatives 


232         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

of  liis  own  invention.  He  rejoices  in  odd  phrases, 
in  recurring  epithets,  in  nicknames,  in  catchwords. 
His  phraseology  is  broken  and  hammered  out  ;  it 
has  been  said  to  resemble  repoussé  metal-work. 
He  makes  it,  of  set  purpose,  unmusical,  unbalanced, 
with  sharp  turns,  with  weak  endings  or  mere  lapses. 
Add  to  this  exclamations,  interrogations,  apostro- 
phes to  the  characters,  to  the  reader,  to  heaven  and 
earth,  to  things  in  general  It  is  impossible  to  con- 
vey an  idea  of  the  way  in  which  our  author  abuses 
the  words  God,  Infinite,  Eternity,  Profundity.  It 
is  true  that  he  freshens  them  up  by  putting  them 
in  the  plural,  and  saying  '^  the  Immensities,"  "  the 
Silences,"  ^'  the  Eternal  Veracities." 

Needless  to  say  that  this  jumbled  part  of  prophet 
and  buffoon,  with  its  laborious  eccentricities,  pro- 
duces the  effect  less  of  conviction  and  of  something 
natural  than  of  a  craving  for  attracting  attention  ; 
not  to  mention  that  this  view  has  historical  justi- 
fication. Carlyle  did  not  originally  write  in  the 
manner  of  which  I  have  just  spoken.  His  "  Life 
of  Schiller"  is  ordinary  English.  If  his  first 
articles  of  literary  criticisna  in  1827  and  the  years 
following,  perhaps,  let  us  guess  what  is  coming, 
they  are  still  not  sharply  parted  off  from  common 
speech.  ^^  Sartor  Resartus,"  which  is  nearly  of  the 
same  date,  already  affects  oddity,  but  it  may  be 
said  that  there  it  was  dictated  by  the  subject.  At 
any  rate,  from  that  time  forward  the  author  takes 
increasing   delight    in    a  manner   which  has    the 


THOMAS   CAKLYLE  233 

double  advantage  of  being  easier  than  simplicity 
and  of  tempting  the  curiosity  of  the  public.  As 
we  follow  him,  we  can  see  him  giving  himself  up 
more  and  more  to  the  style  which  he  has  created. 
His  "Trench  Eevolution/^  published  in  1837,  is 
entirely  cast  in  this  mould.  Unluckily  it  is  the 
nature  of  mannerism  to  fix  and  stereotype  itself 
always  more  and  more,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  Carlyle's  diction  ended  by  becoming  gibberish. 
A  less  direct,  but  very  curious,  proof  of  the  part 
which  we  must  acknowledge  that  purpose  played  in 
forming  Carlyle's  manner  is  an  article  which  he 
contributed  in  1827  to  the  "  Edinburgh  Eeview  '' 
on  Jean  Paul  Friedrich  Eichter.  The  article  be- 
gins by  a  long  and  remarkable  characterization  of 
the  writer's  genius  ;  but  the  odd  thing  is  that 
one  would  swear  Carlyle  himself  had  sat  for  the 
portrait.  I  regret  that  space  does  not  allow  me  to 
translate  these  pages.  There  is  not  a  line  which 
would  not  apply  to  the  English  author  —  nay,  there 
is  not  a  line  in  which  he  has  not  the  air  of  having 
tried  to  paint  himself,  or  at  least  has  not  betrayed 
the  figure  which  he  was  ambitious  of  making  in 
the  world  of  letters.  The  influence  of  Carlyle's 
mannerism  has  been  considerable.  He  has  given 
birth  to  a  whole  generation  of  writers,  disdainful 
of  that  manliness  of  style  which  consists  in  saying 
things  worth  saying  in  the  best  way  possible,  and 
set  above  all  on  the  refinements  of  the  virtuoso  or 
even  the  tricks  of  the  charlatan.     Some  great  tal- 


23-i         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

ents  in  England  liave  been  ruined  in  this  deplorable 
school.  ^Ir.  Ruskin  ended  like  Carlyle  himself  by 
passing  from  the  recherché  to  the  bizarre,  and  from 
affectation  to  mere  mystifying.  Yet  there  are  still 
some  who  feel  themselves  strong  enough  to  be 
sincere  and  simple,  and  they  are  worth  all  the  more 
for  it.  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold  has,  I  should  think, 
as  many  ideas  in  his  head  as  Carlyle,  and  as  much 
poetry  in  his  soul  as  Mr.  Euskin,  and  yet  he  does 
not  think  himself  obliged  to  speak  like  a  mysta- 
gogue. 

The  philosophical  influence  of  Carlyle  has  not 
been  less  than  his  literary  influence,  and  it  has  been 
wholesomer.  His  name  will  remain  in  the  history 
of  English  thought.  He  gave  check  to  the  suprem- 
acy of  the  commonplace.  Just  as,  for  all  the  faults 
of  his  style,  he  is  an  artist  at  bottom  ;  so,  despite 
the  too  great  pretentiousness  of  his  formulae,  there 
is  in  him,  if  not  a  philosopher,  at  least  a  "  m.idwif e 
of  minds."  ^  He  introduced  thought  to  more  than 
one  of  those  truths  which  are  lost  under  logical 
apparatus  or  hidden  by  social  conventions.  His 
declamations  against  jargon,  pretension,  and  char- 
latanism may  be  tainted  themselves  with  charla- 
tanism and  jargon.  But  all  the  same  they  helped 
to  put  sincerity  back  in  the  place  of  honor. 

1  [Socrates's  well-known  description  of  himself.  It  looks  awk- 
ward in  English,  and  despite  the  wrath  of  precisians,  I  think 
the  adjective  maieutic  justifiable  and  even  necessary.  But,  as 
M.  Scherer  renders  it  literally,  so  do  I. —  Trans.'] 


THOMAS  CARLYLE  235 

To  sum  up,  if  I  had  to  characterize  the  moral  and 
intellectual  influence  exercised  by  Carlyle,  I  should 
say  that  he  seems  to  me  to  have,  above  all  things, 
helped  to  loosen  the  fetters  of  positive  creed  in 
which  thought  was  imprisoned  among  his  country- 
men. Carlyle  was  a  mystic,  and  mysticism  here,  as 
elsewhere,  discharged  the  function  which  belongs 
to  it  in  the  chain  of  systems  :  to  wit,  that  of  dis- 
solving dogma  under  pretence  of  spiritualizing  it, 
of  shattering  faith  under  pretence  of  enlarging  it. 
When  men  heard  Carlyle  speak  so  much  of  divinity 
and  eternity,  of  mystery  and  adoration,  they  hailed 
him  as  the  preacher  of  a  religion  higher  and  wider 
than  current  belief.  In  vain  did  orthodoxy,  more 
keen-sighted,  point  out  the  negations  which  lay 
hid  under  the  writer's  formulas.  It  is  so  pleasant  to 
free  oneself  without  appearing  to  break  too  sharply 
with  consecrated  words  and  institutions  !  Since 
then  speculation  has  made  much  way  in  England. 
The  universal  mysteries  of  our  author  have  been 
exchanged  for  exact  research,  precise  definitions, 
rigorous  ascertainments.  I  do  not  know  whether 
Carlyle  was  aware  of  it,  but  he  lived  long  enough 
to  see  his  influence  exhausted,  his  teaching  out  of 
date.  It  is  true  that,  as  consolation,  he  could  take 
himself  to  witness  that  he  had  served  as  the  tran- 
sition between  the  past  and  the  present,  and  that 
this  is  in  the  long  run  the  best  glory  to  which  a 
thinker  can  pretend  here  below. 
February  1881. 


XI 

^'ENDYMION" 

"'Endymion/  by  tlie  author  of  'Lothair.'" 
Why  of  "  Lothair  "  ?  I  can  understand  why  Lord 
Beaconsfield  did  not  choose  to  sign  his  novel  either 
by  the  name  of  Disraeli,  which  he  does  not  now 
bear,  or  by  the  newer  name  which  he  has  not  yet 
made  illustrious  in  letters.  But  I  ask  myself  what 
made  him  prefer  "  Lothair  "  among  the  memories  of 
his  literary  career.  It  would  have  been  more  nat- 
ural to  put  his  latest  work  under  the  patronage  of 
"  Vivian  Grey,"  his  earliest,  or  that  of  "  Coningsby," 
the  j)rototype  of  the  political  novels  wherein  the 
author  has  made  a  style  of  his  own.  Unless,  indeed, 
Lord  Beaconsfield  desired  to  point  out  a  nearer  re- 
lationship, a  special  resemblance  of  kind,  between 
"  Lothair  "  and  ''  Endymion  "  —  a  resemblance 
which  is,  I  grant,  striking,  but  which  is  not  exactly 
a  recommendation  for  the  newcomer. 

Indeed,  everything  in  the  title-page  of  this  novel 
is  a  riddle.  The  name  given  to  the  chief  personage 
makes  it  impossible  to  help  looking  for  a  symbolic 
sense  in  it,  and  yet  nobody  has  yet  been  able  to 
discover  an  analogy  between  the  career  of  Mr. 
Endymion  Ferrers  and  the  love  passages  in  the 
236 


"  ENDYMION  "  237 

cave  of  Latmos.  The  choice  of  the  particular  name 
is,  then,  a  whim  on  the  author's  part,  and  a  whim 
which  looks  like  a  trap  for  the  reader.  Xor  is  the 
motto  of  the  book  more  appropriate.  "  Quidquid 
agunt  homines  "  seems  to  promise  a  great  composi- 
tion in  which  all  ranks  were  to  mingle,  all  careers 
to  cross,  all  the  greatness  and  all  the  meanness,  all 
the  public  efforts,  the  private  intrigues,  the  diverse 
passions  of  which  the  human  tragi-comedy  is  com- 
posed, to  blend.  The  whole  work  of  Balzac  or  of 
Dickens  would  not  be  too  much  to  justify  the  quo- 
tation with  which  Lord  Beaconsfield  has  adorned 
his  novel's  forefront.  And  yet  even  these  great 
connoisseurs  in  reality  have  left  many  a  gap  in  their 
galleries  of  society.  As  for  "Endymion,"  it  is 
simply  a  picture  of  political  life  in  England  — 
indeed  only  one  corner  of  such  a  picture.  Xow, 
however  great  a  place  politics  may  hold  in  the  life 
of  nations,  they  are  yet  but  one  scene  in  the  social 
drama,  but  a  single  episode  in  the  medley  of  ambi- 
tion and  interests. 

Since  I  am  in  the  way  of  noting  the  weak  sides 
of  Lord  Beaconsfield' s  book,  I  will  at  once  point 
out  another  fault.  A  novel,  when  well  done,  is  a 
biograx^hy.  You  are  present  at  the  development  of 
a  principal  character  which  the  revolutions  of  the 
story  served  to  set  in  relief,  which  by  turns  domi- 
nates and  submits  to  the  course  of  things,  and 
round  which  the  other  personages  group  themselves 
in  order  to  contribute  their  contingent  to  that  des- 


238         ESSAYS   ON"   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

tiny  the  history  of  which  is  presented  to  interest 
us.  Art,  in  this  kind  of  writing,  consists  in  jnit- 
ting  as  nnich  diversity  as  is  compatible  with  Lio- 
grapliical  unity  in  the  devising  of  the  facts  and  the 
tracing  of  tlie  characters.  The  more  varied  and 
interesting  the  details  are  in  themselves  —  thus 
showing  the  author's  inventive  resources  and  his 
exactness  of  observation  —  the  more  noteworthy 
the  work  will  be  ;  but  on  one  condition  only,  that 
these  details  shall  be  subordinate  to  the  main  end, 
which  is,  I  repeat,  the  dramatic  setting  forth  of  a 
masterful  personality.  Now,  the  author  of  "  Endy- 
mion"  has  neglected  these  conditions  of  his  art. 
His  hero  is  a  rather  insipid  bundle  of  talents  and 
virtues,  the  commonplace  spoilt-child  of  a  marvel- 
lous fortune.  We  are  told  what  happens  to  him, 
but  he  is  not  made  to  live  before  us,  nor  is  he 
shown  to  us  acting  upon  others,  counting  for  some- 
thing in  the  direction  of  events.  He  has  no  power, 
he  has  not  even  a  special  physiognomy  of  his  own. 
Endymion  is  nothing  in  the  story  but  a  thread 
somehow  or  other  connecting  together  incidents 
which  are  themselves  without  any  great  romantic 
consequence,  and  personages  whose  traits  are  not 
more  marked  than  his  own. 

"  Endymion  "  belongs  to  the  class  of  historical 
novels,  and  to  a  sub-variety  of  this  class,  that  of 
the  historico-political  novel.  It  is  clear  that  the 
attraction  of  this  kind  of  fiction  becomes  lively 
enough  when  the  work  is  written  by  a  man  who  has 


"  ENDYiSIION  "  239 

liimself  played  a  great  part,  and  wlien  the  events 
lie  tells  of  and  the  personages  he  introduces  are 
contemporary.  Such  is  the  case  in  "Endymion," 
the  action  of  which  passes  between  the  death  of 
Canning  and  the  Crimean  war;  and  in  the  pages  of 
which  we  meet  Sir  Eobert  Peel,  Lord  Palmerston, 
and  Napoleon  the  Third.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
class  has  a  drawback  —  the  personages  are  too  near 
us  for  it  to  be  permissible  to  keep  their  names,  or 
even  to  put  them  on  the  stage,  in  a  strictly  histori- 
cal manner.  It  is  clearly  impossible  to  make  dead 
men  like  Lord  Melbourne  and  Mr.  Cobden,  still 
more  living  men  like  Prince  Bismarck  and  Cardinal 
Manning,  act  and  talk  with  the  freedom  which 
Walter  Scott  used  in  regard  to  Louis  XL,  to  Mary 
Stuart,  and  to  Charles  II.  The  novelist  is  obliged 
to  weaken  their  personality,  to  modify  their  char- 
acter, to  disfigure  their  physiognomy  —  in  a  word, 
to  falsify  the  history  which  frames  the  novel. 
Lord  Beaconsfield  has  got  himself  out  of  his  diffi- 
culty by  mingling  traits,  confusing  characters, 
creating  personages  who  are  at  once  real  and  ficti- 
tious, historical  and  imaginary,  who  escape  the 
reader  at  the  moment  when  he  thinks  he  recognizes 
them,  and  only  excite  his  curiosity  to  baffle  it 
immediately  afterwards.  The  pretender  who  after- 
wards became  Emperor  of  the  French  is  here  a 
handsome  man,  of  a  good  figure,  and  witty.  He 
marries  the  widow  of  an  English  peer,  and  recov- 
ers his  dominions  by  a  triumphant  expedition.     It 


240        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

is   difficult   to   imagine  how  irritating  this  trick 
becomes  in  the  long  run. 

A  man's  talent  —  an  orator's,  for  instance  —  is 
not  always  in  the  exact  ratio  of  his  personal  value  ; 
and  in  the  same  way  the  interest  excited  by  a  book 
may  be  out  of  proportion  to  its  intrinsic  merit. 
Lord  Beaconsfield's  new  novel  is  an  instance  of 
this.  As  a  novel  it  is  hardly  distinguished  from 
the  run  of  those  which  the  English  press  turns  out 
every  year.  It  permits  itself  to  be,  rather  than 
insists  on  being,  read.  It  amuses  the  reader  with- 
out enthralling  him.  And  yet  it  has  been  in 
everybody's  hand,  and  for  the  moment  has  been 
the  theme  of  everybody's  talk.  People  were  anx- 
ious to  see  the  present  state  of  the  talent  and 
the  opinions  of  a  man  who  has  for  so  long  a  time 
both  held  the  political  stage  and  plied  the  pen  of 
the  novelist.  They  were  curious  once  more  to 
meet  this  puzzling  personage  on  whose  score  pub- 
lic opinion  has  not  yet  made  itself  up.  I  venture 
to  think  that  it  is  Lord  Beaconsfield's  personality 
which  gives  the  interest  to  his  books,  and  even  to 
his  policy.  One  cannot  help,  in  the  absorption  of 
so  remarkable  a  physiognomy,  putting  aside  the 
question  what  both  are  really  worth.  With  Lord 
Beaconsfield  everything  is  in  keeping  ;  the  novelist 
is  part  of  the  man,  and  the  Prime  Minister  of  the 
novelist.  I  can  never  read  his  books  or  see  him  at 
work  on  the  world's  stage  without  recalling  the 
Mr,  Disraeli  of  fifty  years  ago,  as  a  contemporary 


"  ENDYMION  "  241 

depicts  liim,  dressed  in  velvet  and  satin,  his  wrists 
encircled  by  ruffles,  his  hair  cunningly  curled,  his 
fingers  loaded  with  rings,  an  ivory  cane  in  his  hand  : 
with  all  the  exterior  of  a  dandy  —  a  dandy  of 
genius  ;  a  bundle  of  contradictions,  ambition  allied 
to  scepticism,  determination  hiding  itself  under 
sallies  and  paradoxes.  So  much  for  his  person: 
his  life  has  followed  suit.  A  foreigner,  a  Jew,  he 
raised  himself  from  an  attorney's  office  to  the  peer- 
age of  England,  and  the  headship  of  his  country's 
government.  The  character  of  his  policy  —  full 
of  theatrical  strokes,  of  new  departures,  whimsical 
or  bold  as  the  case  may  be  —  is  well  known.  In 
everything  that  he  has  done,  you  feel  the  Orien- 
tal's taste  for  the  brilliant,  the  adventurer's  taste 
for  the  turns  of  Fortune's  wheel,  the  parvenu's 
taste  for  pomp.  But  it  is  in  his  writings  more 
than  anywhere  else  that  he  shows  himself  as  he 
is:  because  Lord  Beaconsfield  is  at  bottom  an 
artist  first  of  all.  His  old  dandyism  was  already 
literary;  and  his  modern  policy  is  still  romantic. 
"  Endymion  "  is  in  this  respect  really  character- 
istic. The  chief  personages  are  all  parvenus  or 
adventurers  —  the  hero  (to  begin  with  him),  as 
well  as  his  sister,  Eerroll  as  well  as  Elorestan, 
Xigel  Penruddock  the  future  cardinal  as  well  as 
Imogene  the  future  duchess.  Job  Thornberry  the 
manufacturer  as  well  as  Vigo  the  tailor.  And 
what  is  most  remarkable  of  all  is  that  these  adven- 
turous lives  seem  to  have,  at  the  bottom  of  them, 


242         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

the  love  not  so  mucli  of  power  as  of  tlie  pomp  that 
surrounds  it.  In  "  Endyniion,  "  as  in  "Lothair," 
the  author  takes  pleasure  in  nothing  so  much  as  in 
the  splendor  of  the  life  of  Society  :  he  rubs  shoul- 
ders with  none  but  ministers  and  ambassadors, 
dukes  and  duchesses;  he  dreams  only  of  princely 
establishments,  enchanted  castles,  magnificent 
horses,  gold  plate,  sparkling  crystal,  porcelain 
beyond  price.  At  every  line  one  sees  the  Jew  and 
the  rings  on  his  fingers.  The  talent  of  Lord 
Beaconsfield  is,  if  I  may  use  the  expression,  all  on 
the  street  frontage.  Do  not  ask  him  for  heartfelt 
descriptions  of  nature,  for  profound  analysis  of 
motives,  even  for  dramatic  play  of  passion.  Do 
not  look  in  his  books  for  any  sincerity,  any  experi- 
ence, any  startling  view,  any  j^hilosophy  of  any 
kind.  Be  content  with  finding  a  certain  vivacious 
wit,  a  kind  of  brio  and  "go,"  thanks  to  which  the 
reader  gets  to  the  end  of  the  three  volumes  without 
too  much  trouble.  If  the  metal  has  not  the  reso- 
nance that  one  might  wish  for,  we  are  obliged  to 
confess  that  the  tinsel  is  prettily  worked,  and  does 
not  fail  to  produce  a  certain  effect  of  dazzling. 

Lord  Beaconsfield  has  velleities  of  creation, 
rather  than  the  faculty  of  it.  We  see  that  at  the 
outset  of  his  novel  he  meant  to  sketch  the  epoch  at 
which  the  story  begins,  the  England  of  the  first 
half  of  this  century,  in  the  infancy  of  railways, 
when  Grosvenor  Square  was  not  even  lighted  by 
gas,  and  when  the  development  of  manufactures 


"  ENDYMION  "  243 

had  not  yet  raised  up,  in  the  persons  of  the  new 
rich  men,  a  political  influence  rivalling  that  of  the 
aristocracy.  But  it  is  all  told  rather  than  shown. 
AYhat  a  difference,  for  instance,  is  there  between 
this  kind  of  statistical  information  and  the  descrip- 
tion of  England  at  exactly  the  same  time  by  which 
George  Eliot's  "Felix  Holt"  opens.  She,  by 
patient  study  and  by  force  of  imagination,  has 
evoked  the  ^^ast  in  a  far  more  lively  manner  than 
the  author  of  "Endymion,"  though  he  had  the 
advantage  of  personal  acquaintance  with  the  times 
concerned. 

Lord  Beaconsfield  is  hardly  more  happy  in  the 
drawing  of  character.  His  personages  lack  origi- 
nality, they  are  wanting  in  the  real;  they  leave  on 
us  the  kind  of  impression  which  we  receive  in  pass- 
ing through  a  drawing-room.  We  elbow  men  in 
full  dress,  we  notice  women  richly  costumed,  we 
catch  as  we  pass  a  few  words  on  the  events  of  the 
day  ;  but  we  leave  without  having  learnt  anything 
of  the  world  through  which  we  have  brushed.  The 
men  and  women  are  strangers  yet  for  us.  "We  have 
been  the  audience  at  a  play,  and  that  is  all.  A 
more  remarkable  thing  still  is  that  Lord  Beacons- 
field's  characters  are  not  even  very  witty.  ^  I 
must  except  some  sallies  of  Waldershare's,  some 

1  [It  is  odd  that  M.  Scherer  should  have  missed  in  the  opening 
a  phrase  of  political  wit  worthy  of  the  most  brilliant  of  his  own 
countrymen.  I  remember  that  in  reviewing  it  "the  transient 
and  embarrassed  phantom  of  Lord  Goderich"  put  me  in  good 
humor  for  the  whole  book.  —  Trans.] 


244        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

amusing  political  paradoxes  put  in  the  mouth  of  a 
certain  Bertie  Tremaine.  But  the  dialogue  lacks 
the  vivacity  which  we  might  have  expected  from 
a  Avi'iter  whose  public  speech  is  notable  for  its 
mordancy.  And  wliat  happens  when  we  get  to 
sentimental  scenes?  There  is  a  declaration  in 
which  the  lover  thus  expresses  himself:  —  "All 
seasons  of  the  year  would  be  a  delight  to  me  if  I 
were  only  at  your  side.  No;  I  can  no  longer 
refrain  from  avovv^ing  my  love.  I  am  here  only 
because  I  love  you.  I  left  Oxford  and  all  its 
glories  to  have  the  happiness  of  your  society  now 
and  then.  My  thoughts  were  not  presumptuous  — 
I  thought  this  would  suffice  me.  But  I  can  no 
longer  resist  the  j)rodigious  charm,  and  I  offer  you 
my  heart  and  my  life."  Elsewhere  a  lady,  speak- 
ing of  herself,  says,  "  My  pride,  my  intense  pride, 
has  never  allowed  me  any  slip  of  the  heart." 

The  most  interesting  thing,  as  I  have  said,  in 
the  book  is  the  author  himself.  It  is  ahvays 
piquant  to  surprise  the  secrets  of  a  man  who  has 
become  part  of  history  ;  and  is  not  the  jmblication 
of  a  book,  especially  of  a  novel,  a  fashion  of  sur- 
rendering oneself?  The  hero  comes  down  from  his 
pedestal,  the  orator  from  his  tribune,  and  gives  us 
the  chance  of  catching  him  in  the  act,  of  taking 
his  measure  as  best  we  can.  Lord  Beaconsfield 
could  not  write  a  political  novel  without  betraying 
himself  somewhere,  without  letting  escape  some  of 
those  words  in  which  a  career  is  summed  up  and 


"  ENDY^NnOX  "  245 

inner  feelings  are  revealed.  Endymion  says  some- 
where, "  Whetlier  it  is  a  question  of  temperament 
or  the  result  of  the  vicissitudes  of  my  life,  I  have 
a  great  power  of  waiting."  He  numbers  among 
the  advantages  of  wealth  to  a  politician  that  it 
"gives  him  time  to  breathe  and  to  expect."  Else- 
where, again,  we  read  that  never  a  State  perished 
for  lack  of  money,  "  nor  a  private  man  either,  if  he 
had  pluck."  Do  we  not  seem  to  hear  Mr.  Disraeli 
speaking  of  his  youth?  But  he  will  grow  up,  he 
will  become  a  statesman,  and  we  shall  recognize 
him  by  other  strokes.  It  is  will  that  has  made 
him  what  he  is,  and  so  he  believes  in  will  above 
everything.  "Any  man  in  the  world  can  succeed 
in  doing  what  he  has  a  mind  to,  if  only  he  makes 
up  his  mind  to  it."  On  the  other  hand,  we  find  a 
profound  distrust  of  sentiment.  "  Sentiment  with- 
out an  object  is  sickness  or  drunkenness."  He 
has  enemies,  but  what  then?  "I  can't  help  it, 
everybody  is  hated  by  somebody."  Besides,  he 
loves  fighting,  and  he  sometimes  thinks  that,  if  he 
has  found  so  much  pleasure  in  ministerial  life,  "  it 
is  that  it  has  been  a  constant  fight  for  life."  Cer- 
tain reflections,  even  if  they  do  not  admit  such 
personal  explanation,  nevertheless  exhibit  the  ex- 
perience acquired  in  the  practice  of  public  affairs. 
Such  is  the  remark  that  judgment  of  character  is 
the  capital  element  in  the  management  of  men  and 
things.  Xor  is  exact  information  less  important. 
"  As  a  general  rule  the  man  who  succeeds  best  in 


24G         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH   LLÏERATUKK 

life  is  he  who  has  the  best  information.  "  "  You  will 
see  that  there  is  nothing  more  important  in  public 
life,"  says  the  Count  of  Ferroll,  "tlian  to  know 
personally  all  those  who  direct  the  affairs  of  this 
world.  Everything  depends  on  the  character  of 
the  individual,  his  ways  of  thought,  his  prejudices, 
his  superstitions,  his  little  foibles,  his  health. 
Politics  without  this  advantage  is  a  mere  matter 
of  stationery;  pens  and  paper  are  in  communica- 
tion, not  human  beings." 

If  there  is  not  exactly  great  novelty  or  depth  in 
these  sallies,  they  are  certainly  not  without  neat- 
ness. Sometimes,  too,  the  point  is  whetted 
sharper:  —  "All  men  of  intelligence  are  of  the 
same  religion,"  says  Waldershare.  "And  what  is 
that  religion?"  asked  the  Prince.  "Men  of  intel- 
ligence never  tell."  ^ 

Mr.  Gladstone  would  not  have  permitted  him- 
self a  gibe  of  this  kind;  but  what  a  difference 
there  is  in  everything  between  these  two  rivals, 
what  a  contrast  in  their  characters,  in  their  polit- 
ical careers,  in  their  writings!  Mr.  Gladstone's 
nature  is  essentially  moral;  the  categories  to 
which  he  refers  all  things  are  those  of  good  and 
evil.  And  his  extreme  seriousness,  though  it 
excludes  extravagance,  does  not  exclude  enthu- 
siasm.    Mr.  Gladstone  brings  the  fervor  of  faith 

1  [It  is  very  curious  that  M.  Scherer  should  not  have  known 
that  this  is  a  borrowed  jest,  familiar  long  before  the  days  of 
Endymion,  and  usually  fathered  on  Chesterfield.  —  Trans-I 


"  EXDYMION  "  2-i7 

into  every  cause  that  lie  espouses.  He  is  also 
essentially  a  believer;  lie  has  the  noble  sides  of 
the  character  —  its  sincerity,  its  straightforward- 
ness, its  ardor.  He  has  also  its  defects;  his 
gravity  lacks  humor,  his  solidity  becomes  stiffness, 
his  intelligence  —  gifted  as  it  is  with  the  most 
varied  aptitudes,  served  by  prodigious  activity 
and  capacity  for  work,  able  to  descend  from  the 
general  direction  of  an  empire  to  the  technical 
details  of  a  bill  or  the  complicated  schedules  of  a 
budget  —  his  intelligence  has  more  breadth  than 
suppleness.  His  reasonings  are  abstract  because 
he  occupies  himself  rather  with  principles  than 
with  facts;  his  judgments  absolute  because  he 
takes  every  truth  at  the  same  valuation  —  that  of 
an  article  of  religion.  This  explains  his  tendency, 
daily  more  pronounced,  towards  Kadical  ideas, 
Radicalism  being  nothing  but  the  application  of 
the  absolute  to  politics.  Unluckily  politics  are 
the  most  relative  things  in  the  world,  so  that  Rad- 
icalism is  good  for  nothing  but  to  bring  about  rev- 
olutions, and  in  ordinary  times  runs  a  perpetual 
risk  of  letting  institutions  get  ahead  of  moral  and 
social  conditions.  In  his  books  Mr.  Gladstone 
shows  himself  the  same  man  as  in  public  affairs. 
His  solidity  and  sincerity  are  here  translated  into 
conscientiousness  of  study  and  exactitude  of  erudi- 
tion; but  the  lack  of  suppleness  and  of  delicacy 
betrays  itself  at  the  same  time  by  his  weakness  in 
criticism.    Mr.  Gladstone,  in  his  craving  for  ready- 


248         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

made  theses,  carries  his  submission  of  spirit  into 
the  study  of  Homer  as  into  the  study  of  the  Bible. 
He  has  no  more  doubts  about  Homer  and  the  siege 
of  ïroy  than  about  Moses  and  the  passage  of  the 
Red  !Sea.  He  even  deliglits  in  combining  the  two 
things  in  a  single  belief,  in  making  Homeric  my- 
thology an  echo  of  Christian  revelation.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone, rightly  taken,  is  a  survival  of  scholasticism. 
He  still  belongs  to  those  ages  of  human  thought 
when  intellectual  strength  apj)lied  itself  to  data 
furnished  by  tradition,  when  men  discussed  tenets 
ad  wfiiiitum  without  dreaming  of  examining  their 
value,  when  the  most  keenly  whetted  subtlety  kept 
on  good  terms  with  a  superstitious  respect  for 
authority. 

Take  in  every  respect  the  exact  opposite  to  Mr. 
Gladstone's  character,  and  you  will  have  the  char- 
acter of  Lord  Beaconsfield.  The  latter' s  bottom  is 
scepticisn.  He  believes  in  success  and  that  noth- 
ing succeeds  like  it,  and  he  is  consequently 
inclined  not  to  pry  too  narrowly  into  the  ethics  of 
the  means  of  succeeding.  His  worth  is  less  than 
his  rival's,  but  his  savoir  faire  is  greater.  He  is 
less  austere  but  more  genial;  he  has  less  sub- 
stance, but  more  man-of-the-worldliness.  Very  in- 
ferior to  Mr.  Gladstone  in  studying  the  details  of 
a  matter,  he  is  not  so  in  courage  when  a  resolution 
has  to  be  taken,  especially  when  there  is  something 
adventurous  about  this  resolution.  I  should  not 
venture  to  call  Lord  Beaconsfield  the  cleverer  of 


"endymion"  2-i9 

tlie  two  in  the  knowledge  and  the  handling  of  men  ; 
for  if  Mr.  Gladstone  makes  the  mistake  of  believ- 
ing them  all  as  sincere  and  as  impassioned  as  he  is 
himself,  Lord  Beaconsfield  deceives  himself  equally 
in  supposing  them  to  be  his  equals  in  freedom 
from  prejudice.  Sceptic  as  he  is,  and  as  I  have 
called  him,  he  is  too  prone  to  consult  men's  foibles 
rather  than  their  virtues.  In  the  same  way,  in- 
stead of  going  to  the  bottom  of  things,  he  contents 
himself  with  appearances  and  with  the  surface. 
Why,  indeed,  resolve  problems,  search  questions 
out,  if  you  can  reach  the  end  with  a  trumpet- 
blast  or  two  and  a  coup  de  théâtre?  The  doubter 
becomes  a  manager  willingly  enough,  and  the  man- 
ager easily  has  a  dash  of  the  charlatan.  TVe  saw  in 
the  history  of  the  Berlin  Congress,  and  in  all  the 
foreign  policy  of  the  late  Cabinet,  that  Lord 
Beaconsfield  thinks  he  has  done  enough  if  he  has 
appealed  to  the  imagination.  I  may  add  that  he  is 
just  the  same  in  his  books  :  he  shows  in  them  as  a 
writer  brilliant,  amusing,  but  superficial;  he  rouses 
the  curiosity  of  the  public  for  a  fortnight,  but  he 
has  not  started  a  single  profound  sentiment  or  a 
single  new  idea.  His  last  novel  leaves  the  impres- 
sion of  talent  which  would  be  promising  in  a  young 
man,  but  which  in  a  veteran  of  literature  denotes, 
on  the  contrary,  the  saddening  close  of  a  career 
that  has  been,  on  the  whole,  a  failure. 

Such  are  the  two  men  who  in  turn  attract  the 
attention  of  the  literary  public  by  their  writings 


250         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATUllE 

and  that  oi"  Europe  by  their  })olicy.  To  complete 
their  portraits  I  ought  to  be  able  to  add  a  more 
precise  characterization  of  the  eloquence  of  the 
two  orators  than  it  would  beseem  a  foreigner  to 
attempt.  I  have  no  doubt  that  there,  too,  one 
would  again  discover  traces  of  the  fundamental 
qualities  I  have  i^ointed  out:  in  Mr.  Gladstone  a 
mixture  of  subtle  dialectic  and  passionate  convic- 
tion; in  Lord  Beaconsfield  the  sarcasm  which 
floors  an  adversary,  and  so  saves  the  trouble  of 
refuting  him,  the  smart  saying  which  sounds  like 
an  idea,  the  cleverness  of  a  party  chief  more 
busied  about  success  than  about  truth.  I  ouglit, 
too,  to  complete  the  parallel,  to  consider  the  two 
antagonists  as  statesmen  in  their  actual  adminis- 
tration of  their  country.  But  it  is  the  event  which 
decides  here  —  one  cannot  speak  in  full  assurance 
till  facts  have  definitely  pronounced.  All  that  I 
may  say  is  that  Lord  Beaconsfield  is  to  Lord  Chat- 
ham pretty  much  what  Mr.  Gladstone  is  to  Pitt, 
and  the  ancient  European  rôle  of  England  to  the 
dwarfed  and  uncertain  policy  which  now  satisfies 
that  country's  ambition,^ 
December  1880. 

1  [This  is  an  odd  antithesis,  and  I  find  it  rather  difficult  to 
work  out  its  parts  ;  but  it  is  as  M.  Scherer  wrote  it.  —  Trans^ 


XII 

GEORGE  ELIOT 

The  name  of  George  Eliot  might  serve  as  a 
measure  of  the  distance  Avhich  separates  France 
from  England.  The  fact  that  there  is  an  English 
author  whose  life  has  been  published  in  three  vol- 
umes, and  that  this  voluminous  biography  has  been 
greedily  read  by  all  Englishmen,  discussed  and 
commented  by  all  their  newspapers,  distracting 
their  attention  from  painful  political  x^reoccupa- 
tions;  and  the  other  fact  that  the  very  name  of 
this  writer,  whom  our  neighbors  regard  with  so 
much  admiration,  is  hardly  known  among  our- 
selves, and  arouses  neither  memory  nor  interest 
—  are  not  these  things  great  matter  for  wonder? 

And  this  wonder  might  even  turn  to  vexation 
and  incredulity  if  we  were  to  add  that  this  George 
Eliot,  so  utterly  ignored  in  France,  was  one  of 
the  finest  geniuses  of  our  time,  and  that  for  the 
woman  who  adopted  this  pseudonym  was  reserved 
the  honor  of  writing  the  most  perfect  novels  as  yet 
known. 

Thus  the  life  of  George  Eliot  which  Mr.  Cross 
has  just  published,  was  a  real  event  to  our  neigh- 
bors.    But  did  it  satisfy  the  expectation  which  it 

251 


252        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

had  aroused?  Does  it  merit  the  interest  with 
which  it  was  received?  I  hardly  know  wliat  to 
answer.  If  I  myself  set  about  the  reading  with  a 
curiosity  too  greedy  to  find  anything  tedious  in  it, 
it  has  certainly,  on  the  whole,  left  on  me  the 
impression  that  in  these  three  volumes  we  must 
look  rather  for  the  materials  of  a  book  still  to  be 
written  tlian  for  the  book  itself.  The  reasons  lie 
in  the  plan  followed  by  Mr.  Cross  —  a  new  plan, 
but  no  doubt  the  only  one  which  is  seemly  in  the 
case  of  a  husband  who  is  sketching  the  life  of  his 
wife.  Except  a  very  few  explanatory  passages, 
the  work  is  entirely  composed  of  letters,  written 
by  George  Eliot  to  her  friends,  and  of  fragments 
of  a  private  journal  in  which  she  kept  a  record  of 
incidents  and  of  thoughts.  From  these  manu- 
scripts the  editor  has  extracted  the  passages  which 
seemed  to  him  of  such  a  nature  as  to  be  fitly  set 
before  the  public  eye.  And  as  a  fact  these  pas- 
sages constitute  a  continuous  history  —  the  history 
of  a  very  fine  talent  and  a  very  beautiful  soul. 

We  must  then  understand  that  this  is  neither  a 
biography  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word  — 
that  is  to  say,  the  complete  relation  of  an  exist- 
ence; nor  a  correspondence  such  as  we  possess 
many,  and  some  of  them  precious  —  that  is  to  say, 
letters  printed  as  they  were  written  and  revealing 
the  strong  and  weak  sides  of  a  character  alike. 
Mr.  Cross  confines  himself  to  letting  the  letters 
speak,  and  he  takes  good  care  not  to  give  these 


GEORGE   ELIOT  253 

letters  themselves  as  wholes.  Indeed,  he  warns  us 
that  he  takes  from  them  nothing  that  does  not  suit 
his  plan,  and  we  may  be  sure  beforehand  that  he 
has  not  let  slip  any  of  those  involuntary  revela- 
tions, of  those  blessed  indiscretions,  which  rejoice 
the  reader  and  edify  the  psychologist.  Yet  from 
this  we  must  certainly  not  conclude  that  ]\rr. 
Cross,  despite  his  own  reticences  and  those  which 
he  has  imposed  on  George  Eliot,  has  published 
anything  but  a  book  of  the  highest  value.  Hew 
could  it  be  otherwise  when  George  Eliot  holds  the 
pen  and  speaks  to  us  of  herself? 

Mary  Ann  Evans  was  born  in  1819.  Her  father, 
a  carpenter  by  trade,  but  of  education  superior  to 
his  class,  had  made  his  way  little  by  little  and  had 
become  the  agent  of  a  man  of  large  property  in 
Warwickshire.  He  lived  in  the  country,  with  an 
establishment  at  once  easy  and  rustic,  in  a  part  of 
England  which  is  not  excessively  picturesque. 
Mary  Ann  had  a  brother  three  years  older  than 
herself,  with  whom  she  played,  and  for  whom  she 
felt  the  affection  and  the  deference  which  she 
afterwards  described  in  some  charming  sonnets. 
We  cannot  help  recognizing  in  this  passionate  sub- 
missiveness  the  need  of  affection  and  of  support 
which  always  distinguished  George  Eliot,  and 
which  explains  more  than  one  incident  of  her  life. 
From  the  day  when  Isaac  had  a  horse,  his  sister 
could  no  longer  follow  him  across  country;  be- 
sides, the  time  had  come  to  send  her  to  school. 


25i         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

She  carried  thither  delicate  healtli,  a  timid  dispo- 
sition, a  vivacious  intelligence,  a  passion  for  read- 
ing, a  taste  for  taking  trouble,  and  the  gift  of 
making  herself  beloved.  She  found  in  return  cer- 
tain religious  influences  to  which  she  abandoned 
herself  with  the  eagerness  of  a  nature  at  once  affec- 
tionate and  idealist.  Mary  Ann  became  a  model 
of  piety,  and  later  when  she  had  left  school  a 
model  of  good  works  —  starting  prayer-meetings, 
working  for  the  poor,  visiting  the  sick.  Her  biog- 
rapher has  preserved  for  us  a  certain  number  of 
letters  of  this  period  of  faith  and  fervor,  and  he 
has  done  well  precisely  because  of  their  insignifi- 
cance—  I  had  all  but  said  of  their  platitudinous- 
ness.  It  is  not  more  interesting  to  see  the  girl 
occupied  in  the  spiritual  combats  wherein  the  soul 
forms  itself,  pushing  her  conscientiousness  to  the 
point  or  scruple  and  her  sense  of  duty  to  the  point 
of  asceticism,  than  it  is  curious  to  hear  her  talking 
that  conventional  language  of  Protestant  piety 
which  a  witty  lady  once  called  "the  ]}atois  of 
Canaan."  There  is  not  a  touch  of  genius  to  be  met 
with  in  these  pages  of  devout  exhortations  —  not 
even,  I  am  bound  to  say,  an  accent  of  personal 
emotion.  Here  and  there,  on  the  other  hand,  are 
symptoms  Avhich,  in  the  eyes  of  an  enlightened 
spiritual  director,  would  probably  have  justified 
fears  as  to  the  lasting  of  this  fine  devotional  ardor. 
Mary  Ann  reads  too  much  and  too  many  kinds 
of  things.      She  has  already  learnt  French,   Ger- 


GEORGE  ELIOT  255 

man,  and  Italian,  and  she  reads  in  all  these  lan- 
guages—  prose  and  verse,  books  of  science  and 
books  of  fiction.  She  is  ambitious  and  pained  at 
the  thought  that  she  will  never  do  anything  of 
moment.  Her  mother  is  dead,  and  she  has  suc- 
ceeded her  in  the  cares  of  housekeeping;  she 
acquits  herself  brilliantly  therein,  but  her  thoughts 
are  at  Tvork  while  she  is  cooking  or  sewing,  and 
many  questions  begin  to  present  themselves  to  her 
mind.  "Worst  of  all,  she  brings  to  the  considera- 
tion of  these  questions  a  perfect  sincerity  and  a 
craving  for  complete  satisfaction;  whence  it  hap- 
pens that  doubts  often  occur  to  her.  Let  us  add 
that  her  nature  is  a  rich,  a  mobile,  and  a  complex 
one,  and  that  by  lending  itself  in  turn  to  every 
aspect  of  things  it  is  preparing  her  for  the  vexa- 
tious discovery  that  our  knowledge  is  relative. 
Let  her  meet  on  her  way  some  outspoken  passage, 
and  in  such  dispositions  it  is  impossible  to  foresee 
how  far  her  straightforwardness  will  lead  her. 
What  is  certain,  on  the  other  hand,  is  that  this 
beautiful  soul  will  never  rise  up  in  offensive  rebel- 
lion against  the  beliefs  of  her  youth;  that  while 
not  affecting,  as  some  do,  to  regret  the  faith  she 
no  longer  possesses,  and  while  feeling  the  happiness 
of  being  henceforward  at  unity  with  herself,  she 
will  preserve  a  certain  tenderness  for  the  mem- 
ory of  old  struggles,  of  simple  enthusiasm. 
George  Eliot  is  an  example  of  the  religious  senti- 
ment as  well  of  a  tender  conscience  surviving  a 


256         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISn   LITERATURE 

theological  shipwreck  as  complete  as  it  is  possible 
to  imagine. 

"  All  creatures  about  to  moult,  or  to  cast  off  an 
old  skin,  or  enter  on  any  new  metamorphosis,  have 
sickly  feelings.  It  was  so  with  me.  But  now  I 
am  set  free  from  the  irritating  worn-out  integu- 
ment. I  am  entering  on  a  new  period  of  my  life, 
which  makes  me  look  back  on  the  past  as  something 
incredibly  poor  and  contemptible.  I  am  enjoying 
repose,  strength,  and  ardor  in  a  greater  degree  than 
I  have  ever  known,  and  yet  I  never  felt  my  own 
insignificance  and  imperfection  so  completely.'^ 
Here  there  is  nothing  but  the  joy  of  the  deliver- 
ance; soon,  I  repeat,  she  will  show  herself  more 
tender  towards  her  past. 

Mary  Ann  had  been  helped  in  "  casting  her 
skin  "  not  only  by  the  books  which  had  fallen  into 
her  hands,  but  by  the  acquaintance  she  had  made 
with  some  freethinkers  of  both  sexes  in  the  town  of 
Coventry,  near  which  her  father  had  retired.  These 
consisted  of  a  Mr.  Bray,  a  ribbon  manufacturer  and 
a  phrenologist,  of  his  brother-in-law,  Charles  Hen- 
nell,  the  author  of  "Enquiries  into  the  Origin  of 
Christianity,"  and  of  the  wives  and  sisters  of  these 
gentlemen,  who  all  united  honorable  sentiments  to 
a  boldness  of  view  then  pretty  rare  in  England. 
Miss  Evans  spent  eight  years  of  happiness  in  the 
society  of  these  friends.  She  found  in  it  what  she 
so  ardently  desired  —  study  in  common,  discussions 
which  clear  up  and  whet  thought,  and  the  satisfac- 


GEOEGE   ELIOT  267 

tion  of  tliat  feminine  craving  for  intimate  in- 
tercourse wliich  characterized  a  nature  in  other 
respects  so  virile,  and  which  she  recognized  by 
comparing  herself  to  the  ivy.  To  balance  this 
there  was  friction  at  home.  Her  old  father  —  Tory 
in  politics  and  orthodox  in  religion  —  was  horrified 
to  see  his  favorite  daughter  going  astray.  He  be- 
came seriously  angry  when,  in  a  first  fit  of  heretical 
fervor,  she  left  off  going  to  church.  There  was  a 
temporary  rupture  which  Mary  Ann  contrived  to 
heal  by  force  of  affectionate  assiduity,  yet  without 
surrendering  her  liberty.  I  cannot  help  asking 
myself  what  the  excellent  old  man  must  have 
thought  when  he  learnt  that  his  daughter  was 
translating  Strauss's  "  Life  of  Jesus."  This  was 
her  literary  début.  She  took  two  years  over  it, 
and  acquitted  herself  of  the  task  to  the  satisfaction 
of  the  author;  but,  though  in  undertaking  the 
work  she  had  obeyed  her  conviction  that  no  kind 
of  test  ought  to  be  shirked,  she  was  still  far  from 
accepting  all  the  critic's  judgments.  "  It  is  all 
very  well,"  says  she,  ''  when  I  think  Strauss  right  ; 
but  I  think  he  is  often  wrong  —  which  is  indeed 
inevitable  when  a  man  insists  on  following  up  a 
general  idea  in  detail  and  making  a  complete  the- 
ory of  what  is  only  one  element  of  truth."  To  the 
very  end  of  the  task  the  translator  remained  thus 
divided  between  the  attraction  of  an  author  whom 
she  found  "  so  clear  and  so  full  of  ideas  '-'  and  her 
dislike  of  the  pitiless  dissection  which  attacked  the 


258         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

most  beautiful  legends,  the  most  sacred  memories. 
Cue  of  her  friends  tells  how,  when  she  came  to  the 
history  of  the  Crucifixion,  the  young  woman  could 
only  console  herself  for  the  want  of  sympathy  in 
the  treatment  by  looking  at  an  ivory  crucifix  which 
hung  over  her  desk.  The  story  is  slightly  doubt- 
ful, but  may  be  regarded  as  symbolizing  a  life  in 
which  intellectual  honesty  of  the  strictest  kind 
never  shut  out  religious  sensibility. 

The  following  passages  will  show  at  once  the 
depth  of  the  impression  which  certain  readings 
made  on  Mary  Ann's  mind  and  the  freedom  of 
spirit  with  which  she  judged  the  writers  who  had 
moved  her  most.  One  of  them  appears  to  confirm 
an  anecdote  which  I  read  two  or  three  years  ago  in 
a  volume  of  reminiscences  on  Emerson.  He,  dur- 
ing his  visit  to  England  in  1848,  had  met  Miss 
Evans  at  Coventry,  and  had  been  struck  by  her 
conversation.  "She  has,"  he  said,  "a  calm  and 
serious  mind.'^  When  he  one  day  asked  her  sud- 
denly what  was  the  book  she  liked  best,  Mary  Ann 
replied,  without  hesitation,  Rousseau's  "Confes- 
sions.'' Emerson  could  not  hide  his  surprise,  for 
it  was  the  same  with  him.  In  his  case  we  can 
understand  it,  but  a  woman  —  almost  a  girl  ?  Mr. 
Cross's  volumes  supply  the  explanation  which  I 
confess  I  had  thought  was  wanted. 

I  wish  you  thoroughly  to  understand  that  the  writers  who 
have  most  profoundly  influenced  me  —  who  have  rolled  away 
the  waters  from  their  bed,  raised  new  mountains  and  spread 


GEOEGE   ELIOT  259 

delicious  valleys  for  me  —  are  not  in  the  least  oracles  to  me. 
It  is  just  possible  tliat  I  may  not  embrace  one  of  their  opin- 
ions, —  that  I  may  wish  my  life  to  be  shaped  quite  differ- 
ently from  theirs.  For  instance,  it  would  signify  nothing  to 
me  if  a  very  wise  person  were  to  stun  me  with  proofs  that 
Rousseau's  views  of  life,  religion,  and  government  are  mis- 
erably erroneous,  —  that  he  was  guilty  of  some  of  the  worst 
bassesses  that  have  degraded  civilized  man.  I  might  admit 
all  this  :  and  it  would  be  not  the  less  true  that  Rousseau's 
genius  has  sent  that  electric  thrill  through  my  intellectual 
and  moral  frame  which  has  awakened  me  to  new  percep- 
tions, —  which  has  made  man  and  nature  a  fresh  world  of 
thought  and  feeling  to  me  ;  and  this  not  by  teaching  me  any 
new  beUef.  It  is  simply  that  the  rushing  mighty  wind  of 
his  inspiration  has  so  quickened  my  faculties,  that  I  have 
been  able  to  shape  more  definitely  for  myself  ideas  which 
had  previously  dwelt  as  dim  Ahnungen  in  my  soul  ;  the  fire 
of  his  genius  has  so  fused  together  old  thoughts  and  preju- 
dices, that  I  have  been  ready  to  make  new  combinations. 

Miss  Evans's  judgment  of  the  author  of  the  "  Let- 
tres d'un  Voyageur,''  of  "Lélia,"  and  of  "Jacques'^ 
is  not  less  remarkable.  She  had  just  read  the  last- 
named  novel. 

I  should  never  dream  of  going  to  her  writings  as  a  moral 
code  or  text-book.  I  don't  care  whether  I  agree  with  her 
about  marriage  or  not  —  whether  I  think  the  design  of  her 
plot  correct,  or  that  she  had  no  precise  design  at  all,  but 
began  to  write  as  the  spirit  moved  her,  and  trusted  to  Provi- 
dence for  the  catastrophe,  which  I  think  the  more  probable 
case.  It  is  sufficient  for  me,  as  a  reason  for  bowing  before 
her  in  eternal  gratitude  to  that  "great  power  of  God  mani- 
fested in  her,"  that  I  cannot  read  six  pages  of  hers  without 
feeling  that  it  is  given  to  her  to  delineate  human  passion 


260         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

and  its  results  and  (I  must  say,  in  spite  of  your  judgment) 
some  of  the  moral  instincts  and  their  tendencies,  with  such 
truthfulness,  such  nicety  of  discrimination,  such  tragic 
power,  and  withal,  such  loving,  gentle  humor,  that  one 
might  live  a  century  with  nothing  but  one's  own  dull  facul- 
ties, and  not  know  so  much  as  those  six  pages  will  suggest. 

The  same  letter  in  which  we  read  the  apology  of 
"  Jacques  "  and  of  the  "  Confessions  "  ends  by  an 
expression  of  the  happiness  Mary  Ann  feels  in  pos- 
sessing the  "Imitation."  She  has  just  bought  it 
in  Latin,  with  old  and  characteristic  woodcuts. 
"  One  breathes,"  she  says,  "  a  cool  air  as  of  cloisters 
in  the  book  ;  it  makes  one  long  to  be  a  saint  for  a 
few  months.  Verily  its  piety  has  its  foundations 
in  the  depths  of  the  divine  human  soul." 

We  should  not  have  a  complete  idea  of  the  work- 
ings of  Miss  Evans's  mind  —  a  mind  at  once  virile 
and  feminine — about  this  age  of  twenty-eight, 
when  she  was  translating  "  Strauss,"  reading  "  Lelia," 
and  being  charmed  with  the  "  Imitation,"  if  we  did 
not  take  account  of  her  enthusiasm  for  the  French 
Revolution  of  1848.  She  is  very  amusing  about  it. 
We  are  "  the  great  nation."  Away  with  those  who 
cannot  recognize  what  is  noble  and  s^Dlendid  with- 
out making  reserves  and  insinuating  doubts  !  She 
would  willingly  have  given  a  year  of  her  life  to  see 
the  men  of  the  barricades  uncovering  before  the  im- 
age of  the  Christ  who  first  taught  the  world  frater- 
nity. The  actions  of  Lamartine  are  worthy  of  a  poet. 
In  Louis  Blanc  Miss  Evans  reveres  the  man  who 


GEOEGE  ELIOT  261 

wrote  that  sublime  phrase,  "  the  inequality  of  tal- 
ents should  result,  not  in  the  inequality  of  rewards, 
but  in  the  inequality  of  duties."  And  Albert  "  the 
workman."  What  a  pity  one  cannot  procure  his 
portrait  !  As  for  Louis  Philippe,  it  will  be  time  to 
pity  him  when  there  are  no  longer  famished  and 
ignorant  millions  on  the  earth.  As  for  England, 
there  is  no  hope  of  her  having  her  revolution  in 
her  turn  ;  troops  in  that  country  do  not  fraternize 
with  citizens. 

Three  months  pass  ;  the  days  of  June  have 
come  ;  and  the  sweet  enthusiast  can  only  sigh, 
"  Paris  !  poor  Paris  !  Alas  !  alas  !  "  We  are  not 
likely  to  be  wrong  in  thinking  that  the  lesson  was 
not  lost  on  a  nature  in  which  reason  trod  very  hard 
on  the  heels  of  impulse.  Politics,  indeed,  have 
hardly  any  place  in  Mary  Ann's  letters.  She  took 
no  interest  in  the  play  of  the  parliamentary  ma- 
chine, none  in  the  strife  of  parties.  Charlatanism 
and  violence,  the  weapons  of  this  strife,  were 
repugnant  to  her.  Her  thoughts  shot  beyond  them 
to  the  great  social  revolutions  which  her  optimism 
could  not  help  expecting.  But  even  in  this  respect 
she  had  learnt  to  count  less  on  the  disorderly  move- 
ments of  the  multitude  than  on  slow  moral  reforms, 
on  the  advance  of  characters  in  seriousness  and  of 
souls  in  sympathy. 

jNIiss  Evans  lost  her  father  in  the  month  of  May 
1849,  after  an  illness  in  which  she  had  nursed  him 
with  the  most  entire  devotion.     She  found  herself, 


262        ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

at  the  age  of  thirty,  her  own  mistress,  but  home- 
less and  obliged  to  work  for  her  living,  for  a  small 
annuity  of  about  a  hundred  a  year  which  came  to 
her  could  hardly  have  sufficed  her  wants.  She  did 
not,  however,  at  once  make  up  her  mind  to  any- 
thing; and  either  to  give  herself  time  for  reflec- 
tion, or  to  re-establish  her  health  which  had  been 
much  shaken  and  always  remained  delicate,  or  per- 
haps from  the  necessity  of  economizing,  she  went  to 
pass  the  following  summer  and  winter  at  Geneva. 
There  she  boarded  with  a  family  of  simple  manners 
and  cultivated  minds,  where  she  found  the  calm  of 
which  she  had  need.  "  I  have  become,"  she  wrote, 
^*  passionately  attached  to  the  mountains,  to  the 
lake,  to  the  streets  of  the  town,  even  to  my  room, 
and  above  all  to  my  dear  hosts.  .  .  .  Everything 
here  is  so  thoroughly  in  harmony  with  my  moral 
state  that  I  might  almost  say  I  have  never  felt 
more  completely  at  home."  She  wants  nothing 
except  a  little  more  money,  so  as  not  to  need  to  be 
niggardly  in  fires,  for  the  winter  this  year  is  unusu- 
ally cold.  And  she  adds  :  "  I  cannot  think  with- 
out trembling  of  returning  to  England.  It  is  to 
me  the  country  of  sadness,  of  boredom,  of  common- 
place. It  is  true  that  it  is  also  the  country  of  my 
duty  and  of  my  affections.  The  only  ardent  desire 
I  feel  about  the  future  is  to  find  some  feminine 
task  to  discharge,  some  possibility  of  devoting  my- 
self to  some  one,  and  making  them  purely  and 
calmly  happy."     Observe  this  craving  for  an  exist- 


GEORGE   ELIOT  263 

ence  to  share  and  to  make  happy.  Still  no  project 
is  as  yet  formed.  Miss  Evans  rests;  that  is  to 
say,  she  rests  after  her  own  fashion  ;  takes  a  dose 
of  mathematics  every  day  ;  "  to  prevent  the  brain 
from  softening,"  attends  De  la  Rive's  course  of  ex- 
perimental physics,  reads  Voltaire.  She  hesitates 
about  resuming  a  translation  of  Spinoza  which  she 
had  begun  during  her  father's  illness,  and  which 
she  finished  later:  she  feels  clearly  enough  that 
such  books  are  untranslatable.  "  Those  who  read 
Spinoza  in  his  own  text  find  in  his  style  the  same 
kind  of  interest  which  is  found  in  the  conversation 
of  a  person  of  vast  intelligence  who  has  lived  alone 
and  who  expresses,  drawing  it  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  what  others  repeat  by  rote." 

When  she  returned  from  Switzerland  Miss  Evans 
passed  several  months  with  her  friends  at  Eosehill, 
near  Coventry,  staying  from  time  to  time  in  Lon- 
don, and  at  last,  it  would  seem,  occupied  in  earnest 
at  finding  a  career  for  herself.  It  was  now  that 
she  wrote  her  first  article  for  the  "Westminster 
Review,"  a  periodical  which,  after  having  been  the 
representative  of  Bentham  and  of  utilitarianism, 
was  in  the  way  to  become  more  especially  the 
organ  of  Positivism.  Miss  Evans's  article,  which 
had  for  its  text  a  book  of  intellectual  progress,  was 
characteristic,  for  although  it  held  up  the  vanity  of 
the  efforts  made  to  retain  the  beliefs  and  the  insti- 
tutions of  the  past,  it  recognized  the  fact  that  these 
forms  were  once  living,  that  they  presented  sym- 

UNIVERSITI  ) 


ri 


2G4         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

bols  which  were  appropriate  to  a  certain  period  of 
development,  and  that  they  still  remain  fast  bound 
to  whatsoever  is  best  in  men.  At  Rosehill,  too,  Miss 
Evans  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  freetliinking 
publisher  Chapman,  who  was  just  about  to  buy  the 
"  Westminster  Review,"  to  renew  its  editorial  staff, 
and  to  endeavor  to  increase  its  influence.  He 
wanted  an  editor,  or  perhaps  I  should  say  a  sub- 
editor, for  this  business,  and  he  easily  convinced 
himself  that  Mary  Ann  was  just  what  he  wanted. 
His  offers  were  accepted  —  indeed,  she  went  to 
board  in  his  family  —  and  for  two  years  (1852  and 
1853)  she  exercised  the  functions  —  unusual  for  a 
woman  —  of  directress  of  an  important  periodical 
armed  at  all  x^oints  of  philosophy  and  sociology, 
and  possessing  considerable  ability,  but  at  once 
heavy  and  brilliant,  doctrinaire  and  revolutionary, 
aggressive  and  starched. 

Miss  Evans  had  a  good  deal  to  do  as  editress-in- 
chief.  She  corrected  the  proofs,  sometimes  literally 
from  morn  to  eve.  Her  table  groaned  under  the 
weight  of  accumulating  books.  She  was  specially 
entrusted  with  the  notices  of  new  books,  which  still 
form  one  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  "West- 
minster," but  which  inflicted  on  our  poor  directress 
huge  and  hasty  reading.  "I  have  done  nothing 
since  Monday,"  she  writes,  "  and  now  I  must  work, 
work,  work."  She  did  not  contribute  to  Mr.  Chap- 
man's "Review"  more  than  some  ten  substantive 
critical  articles,  and  with  one  exception  they  all 


GEOEGE  ELIOT  265 

date  from  later  years,  when  she  was  freed  from  the 
heavy  work  of  proof  revision  and  correspondence. 
The  exception  I  have  mentioned  has  other  and 
special  claims  to  interest,  inasmuch  as  the  article 
treats  of  lady  novelists.  Naturally  George  Sand 
holds  the  first  place  in  it.  "  No  man  comes  near 
her  for  elegance  and  depth  of  sentiment."  And  of 
her  style  :  "  The  ideas  shine  through  the  diction  as 
light  through  an  alabaster  vase.  Such  is  the  rhyth- 
mical melody  of  her  phrase  that  Beethoven,  one 
would  fain  believe,  would  have  written  so  if  he  had 
expressed  in  words  the  musical  passion  which  pos- 
sessed him."  We  know  from  Mr.  Cross's  volumes 
that  Miss  Evans  was  more  struck  by  the  faults 
than  by  the  beauties  of  "  Jane  Eyre,"  and  the  arti- 
cle of  which  we  speak  confirms  the  impression,  but 
the  Germans  come  off  worst  —  '•  the  palm  of  bad 
novel  writing  belongs  to  them." 

The  Chapmans'  house  was  the  meeting-place,  not 
merely  of  the  staff  of  the  "  Westminster,"  of  the 
disciples  of  the  Positivist  school  and  of  freethink- 
ers, but  generally  speaking  of  the  new  literary 
generation  on  its  way  to  notoriety.  All  sorts  of 
society  were  received  there,  and  soirées  were  given. 
Mary  Ann  sometimes  regretted  the  country  and 
would  have  liked  to  go  to  recruit  by  the  seaside. 
''But  do  not  think,"  she  says,  ^'  that  I  do  not  enjoy 
my  stay  here.  I  like  to  see  new  faces,  and  I  am 
afraid  after  this  the  country  might  seem  a  little 
monotonous."      She   made   many  acquaintances  — 


26G         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

Carlyle,  Miss  Martineau,  Grote,  Mill,  Huxley, 
Mazzini,  Louis  Blanc.  She  once  received  a  two 
hours'  call  from  Pierre  Leroux,  who  had  come  to 
London  with  his  wife  and  children  on  an  errand  of 
lecturing  to  keep  off  starvation.  The  talk  was 
amusing.  "He  set  before  me  all  his  ideas.  He 
belongs  neither  to  the  school  of  Proudhon,  who 
represents  nothing  but  liberty  ;  nor  to  that  of 
Louis  Blanc,  who  represents  only  equality  ;  nor 
to  that  of  Cabot,  who  represents  fraternity.  The 
system  of  Pierre  Leroux  is  a  synthesis  of  the  three 
principles.  He  has  found  the  bridge  which,  is  to 
unite  self-love  to  the  love  of  our  neighbor.  As  for 
the  origin  of  Christianity,  he  thinks  Strauss  insuffi- 
cient because  he  has  not  succeeded  in  showing  the 
identity  of  the  teaching  of  Jesus  with  that  of  the 
Essenes.  This  is  Leroux's  pet  notion.  Essenism 
leads  him  to  Egypt,  Egypt  to  India,  the  cradle  of 
all  religions,  &c.  All  this  was  delivered  with 
amusing  unction.  He  had  already  come  to  London 
once,  when  he  was  twenty -five,  in  search  of  work 
as  a  printer.  Everybody  was  then  in  mourning  for 
the  Princess  Charlotte.  "And  I,"  he  cried,  "hap- 
pened to  have  an  apple-green  coat  !  " 

Among  the  friends  whom  Miss  Evans  made  in 
London  there  were  two  men  who  exercised  a  pro- 
found influence  —  the  one  on  her  thought,  the  other 
on  her  life.  Herbert  Spencer  met  her  at  the  Chap- 
mans'  and  at  once  became  a  friend  of  hers.  He  was 
about  her  age  ;  he  had  just  published  his  first  great 


GEORGE   ELIOT  267 

work  on  Social  Statics.     Ho  had  noticed  the  supe- 
riority of  Mary  Ann's  intelligence,  while  she  on  her 
side  delighted  in  intercourse  with  a  man  of  so  much 
learning  and  of  undoubted  speculative  faculty.     In 
the  very  abstract  regions  where  they  met  the  two 
thinkers  had  no  need  of  paying  a  too  servile  re- 
spect to  convention.     ^'  We  agreed  that  there  was 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  see  each  other  as 
often  as  we  liked,"  writes  Miss  Evans.     "He  is 
kind,  he  is  delightful,  and  I  always  feel  better  after 
being  with  him."     And  in  another  letter,  also  of 
1852  :  "  The  bright  side  of  my  life,  after  my  affec- 
tion for  my  old  friends,  is  the  new  and  delightfully 
calm  friendship  which  I  have  found   in  Herbert 
Spencer.     We   see   each  other  every  day,  and   in 
everything  we  enjoy  a  delightful  comradeship.     If 
it  were  not  for  him  my  life  would  be  singularly 
arid."     A  few  months  later  Spencer  had  not  be- 
come less  dear,  but  another  affection  had  been  born 
of  this  one,  and  was  about  to  take  a  far  greater 
place  in  Mary  Ann's  destiny.      She  had  already 
met  George  Lewes  more  than  once  in  literary  soci- 
ety, when  Spencer  brought  him  to  see  her  one  day 
in  the  winter  of  1851.    The  acquaintance  for  a  long 
time  went  no  farther  ;  the  two  met  with  pleasure, 
with  interest,  but  nothing  more.    "'We  had  a  pleas- 
ant evening  on  Wednesday,"  says  Mary  Ann  at  the 
end  of  March  1853.     "  Lewes  was  as  original  and 
as   amusing   as   ever."      And    a    fortnight    later  : 
"  Everybody  here  is  very  kind  to  me.     Mr.  Lewes 


2G8         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

in  particular  is  amiable  and  attentive,  and  has 
quite  won  me  over,  though  at  first  I  was  strongly 
prejudiced  against  him.  He  is  one  of  the  small 
number  of  persons  in  this  world  who  are  much 
better  than  they  seem.  He  is  a  man  of  heart  and 
conscience  under  a  mask  of  coxcombry  and  fiv- 
conde^^^  (the  English  word  "flippancy"  is  untrans- 
latable). As  from  prejudice  she  went  to  esteem, 
so  she  did  from  acquaintance  to  intimacy.  Lewes 
was  editor  of  a  journal  called  the  "  Leader."  But 
he  was  lazy  and  Miss  Evans  corrected  his  proofs 
for  him,  or  he  was  ill  and  took  a  holiday,  when  she 
acted  as  his  substitute  and  worked  double  tides. 
True,  her  pleasures  disappeared  with  him;  and 
once  when  he  had  gone  to  recruit  in  the  country 
"No  more  operas  and  no  more  amusement  for  a 
month  to  come,"  cries  she.  "Luckily  I  have  no 
time  to  regret  him."  Soon,  other  indications  are 
added.  She  cancels  her  engagements  with  Chap- 
man; she  speaks  of  travelling  on  the  Continent. 
In  short  the  reader  is  only  half  surprised  when  in 
July  1854  he  finds  her  starting  for  Weimar  with 
Lewes,  after  announcing  to  her  friends  that  she 
considers  herself,  and  wishes  to  be  thenceforth  con- 
sidered, as  his  wife. 

1  [Faconde  deserves  almost  the  same  description  as  "  flip- 
pancy." But  I  should  have  thought  it  the  equivalent,  not  so 
much  of  this  latter,  as  of  "  glibness,"  "  gift  of  the  gab."—  Trans.] 


GEORGE  ELIOT  269 


II 


We  are  now  at  the  critical  point  of  George  Eliot's 
life,  at  a  crisis  the  immediate  effect  of  which  was 
to  throw  her  into  an  equivocal  position  and  almost 
to  make  her  a  déclassée,  but  which  was  at  the  same 
time  not  without  effect  on  her  happiness  and  her 
literary  career,  inasmuch  as  it  gave  her  a  home  life 
and   a  judicious   adviser.     The  astonishment  into 
which  this  step  of  hers  threw  those  who  had  not  of 
late  years  followed  her  career  closely  was  bound- 
less, and  this  astonishment  survives  in  a  sort  for  us 
at  the  present  day.     It  would  seem  that  few  men 
were  less  suited  than  Lewes  to  captivate  such  a 
woman   as   Mary   Ann.      If    his   age   was    fairly 
matched  with  hers  (he  was  two  years  older)  his 
exterior  was   anything   but   attractive  —  unkempt 
hair  and  beard,  his  whole  person  neglected,  and  the 
air,  if  not  exactly  of  a  Bohemian,  certainly  of  any- 
thing but  a  gentleman.     Gifted  with  great  curiosity 
of  mind  and  with  much  facility,  Lewes  had  learnt 
everything  and  tried  every  craft  ;  he  had  written 
novels,  biographies,  philosophical   works,   a   play. 
He  had  been  a  journalist,  a  lecturer,  even  an  actor. 
The  only  thing  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  do, 
said  somebody,  was  to  paint,  and  it  would  not  have 
taken  him  more  than  a  week  to  learn  that.     Thack- 
eray asserted  that  he  should  not  be  surprised  if  he 
saw  Lewes  in  Piccadilly  astride  on  a  white  elephant. 
With    this    he    had    inexhaustible     conversation. 


270         ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

great  store  of  fact  and  anecdote,  a  knowledge  alike 
how  to  please  and  how  to  amuse,  a  good  stock  of 
gayety  despite  his  bad  health,  of  probity  despite  his 
vagabond  life,  and  to  crown  all  good  humor  and 
that  evenness  of  disposition  which  excuses  so  many 
faults.  A  singular  contrast,  on  the  whole,  with  a 
timid  and  reserved  woman  eminently  serious  and 
inspired  with  a  particular  aversion  for  that  literary 
species  which  is  called  the  amateur  ! 

But  there  was  in  the  marriage^  of  which  we 
speak  something  more  surprising  than  the  hetero- 
geneousness  of  the  characters  :  there  was  the  fact 
that  Lewes  was  already  married,  that  his  wife  was 
still  alive,  that  he  could  offer  Miss  Evans  nothing 
better  than  a  left-handed  union,  and  that  she  wa>s 
about  to  change  her  name  only  to  usurp  that  which 
belonged  to  another.  Let  us  add,  to  cap  the  climax 
of  strangeness,  that  Miss  Evans,  in  contracting  this 
union  with  Lewes  does  not  seem  to  have  yielded  to 
any  irresistible  attraction.  She  was,  it  would 
seem,  if  not  a  stranger  to  all  passion,  at  least  too 
much  under  the  control  of  reason  and  of  reasoning 
to  be  capable  of  a  coup  de  tète;  besides,  she  as  well 
as  Lewes  was  of  mature  years.  We  must  therefore 
content  ourselves  with  supposing  that  with  her 
craving  for  intimate  affection,  with  the  happiness 
she  felt  at  being  an  object  of  devotion  and  of  care, 
touched  also  by  the  attentions  and  by  the  misfortunes 

1  [On  the  words  "marriage,"  "husband,"  "Mrs.  Lewes," 
&c.  see  note  p.         antQ,  —  Trans.'\ 


GEORGE  ELIOT  271 

of  her  friend,  having  recognized  in  him  solid  qualities 
under  a  fantastic  exterior,  and  promising  herself  to 
complete  the  task  of  polishing  and  moralizing  him. 
Miss  Evans  thought  she  need  not  refuse  herself 
happiness,  however  unexpected  and  equivocal  the 
shape  in  which  it  presented  itself.  Besides,  who 
knows  whether  the  effort  which  she  made  to  con- 
quer her  hesitation  did  not  help  to  strengthen  her 
to  do  so  ?  She  may  have  said  to  herseK  that  she 
was  going  to  perform  an  act  of  self-sacrifice  to 
the  man  whose  life  she  was  about  to  repair 
by  risking  her  own,  and  an  act  of  fidelity  to  her 
own  convictions  by  following  them  in  despite  of 
the  opinions  of  the  world. 

As  for  scruples,  properly  so  called,  for  protests 
of  conscience,  there  could  hardly  be  any  in  Miss 
Evans.  Lewes  had  been  deserted  by  his  wife  ;  his 
first  marriage  was  virtually  dissolved  ;  and  if  it 
could  not  be  so  legally,  there  was  nothing  in  this, 
as  it  were,  accidental  circumstance  which  could 
touch  the  moral  sense.  It  is  true  that  the  legal 
impediment  simultaneously  made  any  religious  cel- 
ebration impossible,  that  the  connection  whereof 
we  speak  was  thus  condemned  to  dispense  with  any 
sanction  whatever,  to  remain,  so  to  speak,  anony- 
mous,^ a  mere  matter  of  mutual  consent.    But  after 

1  [In  using  the  word  anonyme,  I  think  M.  Scherer  may  have 
thought  of  its  use  with  société,  which  we  only  partially  render 
by  identifying  it  with  "  limited  liability."  Strictly,  it  is  a  part- 
nership where  the  partners  are  not  known  to  be  such  by  the 
public.  —  Trans.] 


272        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

all  is  not  this  the  essence  of  marriage  —  is  it  not 
even  the  canonical  definition  of  it  ?  The  hesita- 
tions which  Miss  Evans  certainly  had  to  surmount, 
the  doubts  which  she  had  to  conquer,  were  of 
another  kind,  and  everything  shows  us  that  she 
experienced  these  in  all  their  force.  She  was  going 
to  expose  herself  to  unpleasant  remarks,  to  offend 
many  of  her  friends,  to  put  herself  for  life  in  a 
false  position.  She  was  breaking  social  laws,  the 
importance  of  which  she  well  knew,  and  she  must 
have  felt  that  in  breaking  them  she  was  setting  a 
deplorable  example  to  others  who  neither  had  the 
same  excuses  nor  were  held  back  on  the  downward 
slope  by  the  same  principles.  The  notion  that  her 
action  might  be  interpreted  as  a  whim,  after  the 
fashion  of  George  Sand,  as  an  adhesion  to  the  doc- 
trine of  free-love,  must  have  been  hideous  to  this 
pure  soul.  If  she  disregarded  it,  it  was  because 
she  promised  herself  to  refute  by  her  life  the  criti- 
cisms which  her  conduct  was  about  to  invite.  This 
promise,  let  us  hasten  to  say,  she  kept,  and  with 
the  help  of  her  literary  glory  she  finally  shut  the 
mouth  of  scandal.  England,  when  she  died,  had 
long  excused  or  forgotten  ;  but  how  much  courage 
must  it  not  have  needed  to  hold  the  lists  to  the 
end! 

In  a  letter  written  a  year  later,  in  explanation  of 
her  conduct,  Miss  Evans  thus  expresses  herself  :  — 

If  there  is  any  one  action  or  relation  of  my  life  which  is 
and  always  has  been  profoundly  serious,  it  is  my  relation  to 


GEORGE   ELIOT  273 

Mr.  Lewes.     It  is,  however,  natural  enough  that  you  should 
mistake  me  in  many  ways,  for  not  only  are  you  unacquainted 
with  Mr.  Lewes's  real  character  and  the  course  of  his  actions, 
but  also  it  is  several  years  now  since  you  and  I  were  much 
together,  and  it  is  possible  that  the  modifications  my  mind  has 
undergone  may  be  quite  in  the  opposite  direction  of  what  you 
imagine.     No  one  can  be  better  aware  than  yourself  that  it 
is  possible  for  two  people  to  hold  different  opinions  on  momen- 
tous subjects  with  equal  sincerity,  and  an  equally  earnest 
conviction  that  their  respective  opinions  are  alone  the  truly 
moral  ones.     If  we  differ  on  the  subject  of  the  marriage  laws, 
I  at  least  can  believe  of  you  that  you  cleave  to  what  you  be- 
lieve to  be  good  ;  and  I  don't  know  of  anything  in  the  natm-e 
of  your  views  that  should  prevent  you  from  believing  the 
same  of  me.    How  far  we  differ,  I  think  we  neither  of  us 
know,  for  I  am  ignorant  of  your  precise  views  ;  and  appar- 
ently you  attribute  to  me  both  feelings  and  opinions  which 
are  not  mine.     "We  cannot  set  each  other  quite  right  in  this 
matter  in  letters,  but  one  thing  I  can  tell  you  in  few  words. 
Light  and  easily  broken  ties  are  what  I  neither  desire  theo- 
retically nor  could  hve  for  practically.     Women  who  are  sat- 
isfied with  such  ties  do  not  act  as  I  have  done.    That  any 
unworldly,  unsuperstitious   person  who   is   sufficiently  ac- 
quainted with  the  realities  of  life  can  pronounce  my  relation 
to  Mr.  Lewes  immoral,  I  can  only  understand  by  remember- 
ing how  subtle  and  complex  are  the  influences  that  mould 
opinion.     But  I  do  remember  this  :  and  I  indulge  in  no  arro- 
gant or  uncharitable  thoughts  about  those  who  condemn  us, 
even  though  we  might  have  expected  a  somewhat  different 
verdict.     From  the  majority  of  persons,  of  course,  we  never 
looked  for  anything  but  condemnation.     We  are  leading  no 
life  of  self-indulgence,  except  indeed  that,  being  happy  in 
each  other,  we  find  everything  easy.     We  are  working  hard 
to  provide  for  others  better  than  we  provide  for  ourselves, 
and  to  fulfil  every  responsibility  that  lies  upon  us.    Levity 
and  pride  would  not  be  a  sufficient  basis  for  that. 


274        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE 

And  later  iu  1857  :  — 

If  I  live  five  years  longer,  the  positive  result  of  my  exist- 
ence on  the  side  of  truth  and  goodness  will  outweigh  the 
small  negative  good  that  would  have  consisted  in  my  not 
doing  anything  to  shock  others,  and  I  can  conceive  no  con- 
sequences that  will  make  me  repent  the  past. 

Lord  Acton,  in  a  very  remarkable  article  in  the 
"Nineteenth  Century,"  thinks  that  George  Eliot 
was  wrong  when  she  thought  she  knew  the  price 
she  paid  for  her  happiness  with  Lewes.  What  she 
really  sacrificed,  according  to  him,  was  freedom  of 
speech,  the  first  place  among  the  women  of  her 
time,  and  a  tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

I  am  surprised  that  no  more  attention  has  been 
paid  to  the  light  which  George  Eliot's  second  mar- 
riage throws  on  her  first.  Less  than  eighteen  months 
after  Lewes's  death,  and  at  the  age  of  sixty,  she 
married  a  man,  worthy  of  her  in  sentiment,  as  the 
"  Life  "  before  us  proves,  but  very  much  younger 
than  herself,  so  that  she  had  not,  indeed,  a  second 
time  to  dare  public  opinion,  but  to  astonish  it  afresh. 
Once  more  George  Eliot  had  been  unable  to  refuse 
herself  the  pleasures  of  life  with  another. 

Let  us  lastly  note,  before  quitting  the  subject,  the 
influence  which  was  later  exercised  on  her  novels 
by  the  crisis  through  which  she  had  gone  in  uniting 
herself  to  Lewes.  So  far  from  the  false  position  in 
which  she  had  placed  herself  having  for  consequence 
the  lowering  of  the  moral  tone  of  her  works,  exactly 
the  contrary  happened.     One  might  almost  say  that 


GEOEGE  ELIOT  275 

she  became  constantly  more  eager  to  set  duty  above 
passion  and  to  recall  to  notice  the  danger  of  enter- 
ing into  conflict  with  public  order,  were  it  only  of 
a  conventional  kind.  And  in  the  same  way,  as  far 
as  she  is  personally  concerned,  there  is  not  a  situa- 
tion or  even  a  word  in  her  writings  which  can  be 
interpreted  as  an  apology  for  her  own  conduct. 
We  feel  that  she  pays  special  attention  to  this  — 
that  she  has  a  punctilio  about  it. 

Lewes  and  Miss  Evans  disappeared  after  an- 
nouncing their  connection.  They  set  out  for  Ger- 
many towards  the  end  of  July  1854,  gave  three 
months  to  Weimar,  and  spent  the  winter  in  Berlin. 
The  choice  of  these  two  towns  was  not  a  matter  of 
liking  nor  yet  one  of  caj^rice.  In  one  Lewes  hoped 
to  collect  impressions  and  materials  for  a  "  Life  of 
Goethe,"  and  in  the  other  he  was  sure  to  find  help 
for  the  physiological  studies  to  which  he  was  begin- 
ning to  turn  his  attention.  The  stay  at  Weimar 
was  very  agreeable  —  famous  men,  easy  intimacies, 
plenty  of  good  music,  and  above  all  great  literary 
memories.  It  was  not  without  emotion  that  our 
traveller  visited  the  houses  of  the  two  famous  poets. 
"  Among  such  memorials,"  she  wrote,  '^  one  breathes 
deeply  and  the  tears  rush  to  one's  eyes."  She 
learned  with  regret  that  no  portrait  of  Schiller  is 
like  him.  Eauch  said  that  he  had  a  wretched  fore- 
head, and  Tieck,  the  sculptor,  declared  that  his 
whole  person  made  one  think  of  a  camel.  The 
Leweses  heard  much  Wagner  at  Weimar,  but  with- 


276         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

out  succeeding  in  relishing  liim.  On  tlie  other 
hand,  they  made  great  friends  with  Liszt,  who  con- 
ducted the  orchestra  at  the  Opera,  and  whose  talk 
was  as  amusing  as  his  play  was  extraordinary.  He 
told  them  that  when  he  met  Madame  d'Agoult 
after  the  publication  of  "Nelida,"  he  asked  her, 
"  Why  were  you  so  unkind  to  that  x^oor  Lehmann  ?  "  ^ 
Berlin  seemed  to  our  travellers  cold  and  prosaic 
after  Weimar.  They  set  to  work  again,  Lewes 
finishing  his  biography  and  his  friend  writing 
articles  for  the  "Westminster''  or  continuing  her 
translation  of  Spinoza's  "  Ethics,"  not  to  mention 
a  mass  of  reading,  especially  in  German.  She  par- 
ticularly relished  Lessing  —  her  dear  Lessing,  as 
she  calls  him.  Goethe  does  not  always  charm 
her  :  she  is  chiefly  amused  at  the  want  of  point  in 
the  "  Xenien  "  ;  the  "  Wanderjahre  "  draw  from 
her  the  cry,  "à  mourir  d'ennui."^  Among  the 
acquaintances  she  made  in  Berlin,  the  sculptor 
Rauch  seemed  to  her  in  all  the  respects  the  most 
distinguished,  and  Gruppe  the  oddest.  Gruppe 
ought  to  have  suited  Lewes,  for,  if  he  was  not  a 
Jack  of  all  trades,  he  had  tried  every  kind  of 
literature  :  he  left  lyrics,  five  epics,  a  play,  works 
in  literary  history  and  criticism,  learned  studies  of 

1  Lehmann,  the  representative  of  Liszt  himself,  who  had  been 
on  the  most  intimate  terms  with  the  author.  George  Eliot 
thought  the  remark  "felicitous  and  characteristic."  This  was 
charitable. —  Trans.] 

2  [The  French  is  George  Eliot's.  —  Trans.] 


GEORGE   ELIOT  277 

antiquity,  and  books  of  philosophy.  He  was  uni- 
versity professor  to  boot,  and  an  enthusiastic  boar- 
hunter.  Mary  Ann  describes  him  clothed  in  a 
dressing-gown  which  had  once  been  a  winter  great- 
coat/ his  velvet  cap  on  his  gray  hair,  reading 
aloud  his  own  works  with  enthusiasm,  but  simj^le 
and  kind-hearted,  and  (oddly  enough),  despite  his 
prodigious  fertility,  rather  slow  of  apprehension 
and  delighting  in  poor  plays  on  words.  "  Apropos 
of  jokes,"  she  adds,  "we  noticed  that  during  the 
whole  seven  months  of  our  stay  in  Germany,  we 
never  heard  one  witticism  or  even  one  felicitous 
idea  or  expression  from  a  German." 

After  German  heaviness  came  French  feather- 
headedness.  The  travellers  met,  in  a  Berlin  salon 
a  countryman  of  ours,  who  marvelled  at  the  talent 
with  which  Meyerbeer  in  the  "  Huguenots  "  had 
grasped  the  spirit  of  the  epoch  of  Charles  the 
Kinth.  "Eead  the  chronicles!"  cried  he.  "What! 
Froissart's  ?  "  slipped  in  a  malicious  voice.  "  Yes, 
something  of  that  kind,  or  else  the  chronicles  of 
Brantôme,  of  Mérimée,  and  you  will  find  that  ^leyer- 
beer  has  expressed  all  that  perfectly  —  at  least, 
I  think  so."  "But  perhaps,  monsieur,  it  is  your 
own  genius  which  put  these  ideas  into  the  music  ?" 
Whereat  the  agreeable  rattle  modestly  disclaimed. 
Varnhagen,  to  whose  house  the  Leweses  constantly 
went,  continually  recurred  to  the  antipathy  with 
which  Carlyle  had  inspired  him  when,  after  long 

1  [She  only  says  that  she  "  fancies  "  it  had.  —  Trans.l 


278         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

correspondence,  they  came  to  meet.  Varnliagen, 
thoiigli  not  without  admiration  for  some  of  the 
English  humorist's  work,  had  been  shocked  by  his 
taste  for  desjDotism  and  by  liis  rough,  paradoxical 
talk  in  general.  Yet  we  have  a  neat  saying  of 
his.^  At  a  dinner  given  to  him  in  Berlin  the  talk 
was  of  Goethe,  and  some  of  the  guests  affected  to 
deplore  that  the  great  poet  had  so  little  religion.^ 
During  this  talk  Carlyle  was  visibly  uneasy,  fum- 
bling with  his  dinner-napkin.  At  last  he  broke 
out  thus,  "Gentlemen,  do  you  know  the  story  of 
the  man  who  railed  at  the  sun  because  it  would  not 
light  his  cigar  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lewes's  final  judgment  at  her  departure 
does  honor  to  her  impartiality.  She  had  become 
very  weary  of  the  heavy  finery,  the  noise,  the  indis- 
criminate smoking.^  "But,  after  all,"  she  says, 
"  Germany  is  no  bad  i)lace  to  live  in,  and  the  Ger- 
mans, to  counterbalance  their  want  of  taste  and 
politeness,  are  at  least  free  from  the  bigotry  and 
exclusiveness  "  of  the  English. 

On  their  return  to  England  the  couple  set  to 
work  seriously  on  the  life  which  they  had  deliber- 
ately foreseen  and  chosen.  They  hired  at  Richmond, 
near  London,  a  modest  house  *  where  the  drawing- 

1  [Not  from  Varnhagen.  —  Trans.'\ 

2  [In  original  "  evangelical  sentiment,"  which  is  not  quite  the 
same.  —  Trans.'] 

3  [It  is  fair  to  say  that  George  Eliot  limits  this  to  German 
inns. —  Trans.] 

4  [Lodgings  rather.  —  Trans.] 


GEORGE  ELIOT  279 

room  was  the  only  study,  and  this  had  to  do  for 
both  of  them.     Lewes  had  to  provide  for  the  needs 
of  his  first  wife,  now  fallen  very  low,  as  well  as  for 
the  education  of  his  three  boys  at  school.     This 
made  a  good  many  mouths  for  which  to  find  meat, 
and  that,  too,  with  no  very  profitable  craft.     Mary 
Ann  had  published  the  translation  of  Feuerbach's 
"  Wesen  des  Christenthums  "  before  her  departure 
for  Germany,  but  she  could  not  expect  much  profit 
from  a  book  which  was  already  rather  out  of  date, 
and   in   any   case    ill-adjusted   to   the   intellectual 
meridian  of  Great  Britain.     The  translation  of  Spi- 
noza which  she  had  finished  at  Berlin  was  still  less 
promising,  and,  indeed,  has  never  been  printed.    So 
she  went  back  to  periodical  literature.    Her  health, 
unluckily,  was  weak,  and  caused  frequent  interrup- 
tions, but  to  make  up  for  this  she  enjoyed  domestic 
happiness  and  the  success  of  the  union  she  had 
contracted.     She  feels,   she  says,  her  esteem  and 
affection   for  Lewes  increase  every  day.     '^  I  am 
very  happy,"  she  wrote  after  three  years'   experi- 
ence, "  happy  with  the  greatest  happiness  that  life 
can  give,  the  complete  sympathy  and  affection  of  a 
man  whose  mind  stimulates  mine  and  keeps  up  in 
me  a  wholesome  activity."     But  it  was  not  only 
activity,  it  was   talent   as   well  which   developed 
itself  in  our  author  through  this  beneficent  contact. 
Like  most  strong  and  deep  natures,  Mrs.  Lewes 
arrived  but  late  at  the  consciousness  and  the  exer- 
cise of  her  gifts.    She  was  thirty-six  years  old  when 


280         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

her  "  Westminster  "  articles  began  to  rise  from  the 
level  (high  enough,  to  be  sure)  which  they  had 
hitherto  kept,  and  to  attract  attention  more  vividly. 
Lewes  used  to  say  that  it  was  in  reading  one  of  these 
pieces,  a  biting  satire  on  the  apocalyptic  dreams  of 
a  popular  preacher/  that  he  first  gained  insight  into 
his  wife's  genius.  Two  other  fine  articles  —  one 
on  Young  of  the  ''  Nights,"  the  other  on  Heine  and 
German  wit  —  must  have  strengthened  this  impres- 
sion. Moreover,  as  it  happened,  Mrs.  Lewes  was 
at  this  very  moment  entering  on  a  path  in  which 
she  was  to  give  rise  to  far  different  astonishment. 

The  history  of  her  début  in  novel-writing  is 
memorable  enough  for  us  to  hear  the  telling  of  it 
by  herself  :  — 

September  1856  made  a  new  era  in  my  life,  for  it  was 
then  I  began  to  write  fiction.  It  had  always  been  a  vague 
dream  of  mine  that  some  time  or  other  I  might  write  a 
novel  ;  and  my  shadowy  conception  of  what  the  novel  was 
to  be,  varied,  of  course,  from  one  epoch  of  my  life  to  an- 
other. But  I  never  went  further  towards  the  actual  writing 
of  the  novel  than  an  introductory  chapter  describing  a  Staf- 
fordshire village  and  the  life  of  the  neighboring  farm-houses  ; 
and  as  the  years  passed  on  I  lost  any  hope  that  I  should 
ever  be  able  to  write  a  novel,  just  as  I  desponded  about 
everything  else  in  my  future  life.  I  always  thought  I  was 
deficient  in  dramatic  power,  both  of  construction  and  dia- 
logue, but  I  felt  I  should  be  at  my  ease  in  the  descriptive 
parts  of  a  novel.  My  "introductory  chapter"  was  pure 
description,   though    there  were   good    materials  in  it  for 

1  [Poor  Dr.  Gumming,  if  not  witty,  yet  a  great  whetstone  of 
wit.  —  Trails.] 


GEORGE   ELIOT  281 

dramatic  presentation.  It  happened  to  be  among  the  papers 
I  had  with  me  in  Germany,  and  one  evening  at  Berlin 
something  led  me  to  read  it  to  George.  He  was  struck  with 
it  as  a  bit  of  concrete  description,  and  it  suggested  to  him 
the  possibility  of  my  being  able  to  write  a  novel,  though  he 
distrusted  —  indeed  disbelieved  in  —  my  possession  of  any 
dramatic  power.  Still,  he  began  to  think  that  I  might  as 
well  try  some  time  what  I  could  do  in  fiction;  and  by-and-by, 
when  we  came  back  to  England,  and  I  had  greater  success 
than  he  ever  expected  in  other  kinds  of  writing,  his  impres- 
sion that  it  was  worth  while  to  see  how  far  my  mental  power 
would  go,  towards  the  production  of  a  novel,  was  strength^ 
ened.  He  began  to  say  very  positively,  "  You  must  try  and 
write  a  story,"  and  when  we  were  at  Tenby  he  urged  me 
to  begin  at  once.  I  deferred  it,  however,  after  my  usual 
fashion,  with  work  that  does  not  present  itself  as  an  abso- 
lute duty.  But  one  morning  as  I  was  thinking  w^hat  should 
be  the  subject  of  my  first  story,  my  thoughts  merged  them- 
selves into  a  dreamy  doze,  and  I  imagined  myself  writing  a 
story,  of  which  the  title  was  "  The  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Rev- 
erend Amos  Barton."  I  was  soon  wide  awake  again  and 
told  G.  He  said,  "Oh,  what  a  capital  title!"  and  from  that 
time  I  had  settled  in  my  mind  that  this  should  be  my  first 
story.  George  used  to  say,  "  It  may  be  a  failure  —  it  may 
be  that  you  are  unable  to  write  fiction.  Or  perhaps  it  may 
be  just  good  enough  to  warrant  you  trying  again."  Again, 
"  You  may  write  a  chef -d" œuvre  at  once  —  there's  no  telling." 
But  his  prevalent  impression  was,  that  though  I  could 
hardly  write  a  poor  novel,  my  effort  would  want  the  highest 
quality  of  fiction  —  dramatic  presentation.  He  used  to  say, 
"You  have  wit,  description,  and  philosophy —  those  go  a 
good  way  towards  the  production  of  a  novel.  It  is  worth 
while  for  you  to  try  the  experiment." 

We  determined  that  if  my  story  turned  out  good  enough, 
we  would  send  it  to  Blackwood. 


282         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

When  she  returned  to  Richmond  Mrs.  Lewes  set  to 
work,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  was  able  to  read 
the  first  part  of  "  Amos  Barton  "  to  her  husband. 
Lewes's  fears  were  at  once  dispelled. 

The  scene  at  Cross  Farm,  he  said,  satisfied  him  that  I 
had  the  very  element  he  had  been  doubtful  about — it  was 
clear  I  could  write  good  dialogue.  There  still  remained  the 
question  whether  I  could  command  any  pathos  ;  and  that 
was  to  be  decided  by  the  mode  in  which  I  treated  Milly's 
death.  One  night  G.  went  to  town  on  purpose  to  leave  me 
a  quiet  evening  for  writing  it.  I  wrote  the  chapter  from  the 
news  brought  by  the  shepherd  to  Mrs.  Hackit,  to  the  mo- 
ment when  Amos  is  dragged  from  the  bedside,  and  I  read  it 
to  G.  when  he  came  home.  We  both  cried  over  it,  and  then 
he  came  up  to  me  and  kissed  me,  saying,  "I  think  your 
pathos  is  better  than  your  fun."  i 

The  tale  finished,  the  next  thing  was  to  get  it 
published  without,  of  course,  betraying  the  author's 
sex  and  name.  Anonymity  was  sure  to  add  the 
attraction  of  curiosity  to  the  merit  of  the  story, 
and,  besides,  Mrs.  Lewes's  position  made  secrecy 
desirable.  Her  husband  undertook  the  transaction. 
He  sent  the  MS.  of  "  Amos  Barton  "  to  Blackwood 
as  the  work  of  one  of  his  friends,  and  making  no 
secret  of  the  admiration  with  which  the  story  had 

1  [According  to  a  practice  of  M.  Scherer's,  which  I  have  be- 
fore referred  to,  this  passage,  though  given  in  the  first  person 
and  in  inverted  commas,  is  much  shortened  and  paraphrased, 
probably  because  the  original  contains  references  to  the  actual 
story,  which  French  readers  might  not  understand.  It  seemed 
better  to  restore  the  actual  text. —  Trans.] 


GEOEGE    ELIOT  283 

inspired  liim.  Others  were  to  follow  under  the 
general  title  of  "  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life/*'  a  phrase 
which  at  once  warns  us  of  the  difficulty  of  trans- 
lating into  French  writings  such  as  those  of  George 
Eliot,  inasmuch  as  the  very  words  "church"  and 
"clergy"  have  for  us  a  sense  quite  opposite  to  that 
which  they  carry  with  them  in  a  country  where 
ministers  of  religion  have  the  right  to  feel  and  to 
suffer,  to  love  and  to  marry,  like  other  men.  Black- 
wood at  once  recognized  the  worth  of  the  story  sent 
him.  "'  It  is  long,"  said  he,  "  since  I  read  anything 
so  novel,  so  amusing,  and  at  the  same  time  so 
pathetic."  The  first  part  of  "  Amos  "  appeared  in 
his  magazine  for  January  1857,  and  success  en- 
couraging the  author,  she  produced  two  other  sto- 
ries, after  which  the  whole  was  reprinted  in  volume 
form  under  the  name  of  George  Eliot.  For  ^Irs. 
Lewes,  wishing  still  to  preserve  her  incognito, 
thought  she  had  better  adopt  a  pseudonym.  The 
secret  was  kept  to  admiration,  and  it  was  many 
months  before  Blackwood  himself  knew  with  whom 
he  was  dealing.  The  author's  most  intimate  friends 
of  her  own  sex  (with  the  exception  of  one  who 
guessed  at  first  sight)  felt  the  deepest  astonishment 
vrhen  they  learnt  the  truth.  As  for  the  public,  con- 
jecture ran  riot,  and  still  went  astray  when  another 
work,  '"Adam  Bede,"  had  already  followed  the 
"  Scenes."  In  particular,  endless  discussions  were 
held  on  the  sex  of  the  new  author.  In  France  M. 
Montegut  made  a  long  examination  of  the  question, 


284        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH  LITE  MATURE 

■weighed  the  pros  and  cons.,  and  finally  inclined  to 
the  masculine.  "In  fact,"  said  he,  "the  author 
seems  to  have  something  of  both  sexes  ;  and  as  only 
ecclesiastics,  by  a  special  favor  of  circumstances, 
enjoy  this  epicene  privilege,  we  shall  take  it  on 
ourselves  to  say  that  we  think  the  author  a  minis- 
ter of  the  Established  Church."  An  English  jour- 
nal (the  "Saturday  Review"^)  was  still  minuter 
in  its  conclusions,  and  decided  that  the  name  of 
George  Eliot  must  hide  some  scholarly  clergyman, 
who  had  taken  his  degree  at  Cambridge,  who  lived 
or  had  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  the 
country,  who  was  the  father  of  a  numerous  family, 
of  pronounced  High  Church  tendencies,  and  very 
fond  of  children,  the  Greek  tragedians,  and  dogs. 
The  care  with  which  George  Eliot  kept  her  secret 
for  two  years  and  more  had  unexpected  conse- 
quences. An  inhabitant  of  Nuneaton,  where  Mary 
Ann  had  been  at  school,  availing  himself  of  the 
local  memories  which  had  slipped  into  the  tales, 
gave  it  to  be  understood  that  he  was  the  author, 
and  so  interested  the  neighborhood  in  his  poverty 
and  hidden  genius  that  a  subscription  was  got  up 
for  him. 

Dickens  was  keener-sighted  than  most  critics. 
Having  received  a  copy  of  the  "  Scenes,"  he 
thanked  the  unknown  author  in  a  letter  breathing 


1  [I  have  looked  up  this  article  with  some  interest.    The  in- 
tention is  pretty  evidently  ironical. —  'Trans.] 


GEORGE  ELIOT  285 

the  frankest  admiration,  but  not  hiding  the  conclu- 
sion to  which  his  literary  tact  ^  had  led  him. 

Tavistock  House,  Loxdox, 

Monday,  17tli  Jan.  1858, 

My  Dear  Sir,  —  I  have  been  so  strongly  affected  by  the 
two  first  tales  in  the  book  you  have  had  the  kindness  to 
send  me,  through  Messrs.  Blackwood,  that  I  hope  you  will 
excuse  my  writing  to  you  to  express  my  admiration  of  their 
extraordinary  merit.  The  exquisite  truth  and  delicacy,  both 
of  the  humor  and  the  pathos  of  these  stories,  I  have  never 
seen  the  like  of  ;  and  they  have  impressed  me  in  a  manner 
that  I  should  find  it  very  difficult  to  describe  to  you,  if  I  had 
the  impertinence  to  try. 

In  addressing  these  few  words  of  thankfulness  to  the 
creator  of  the  Sad  Fortunes  of  the  Eev.  Amos  Barton,  and 
the  sad  love  stoiy  of  Mr.  Gilfil,  I  am  (I  presume)  bound  to 
adopt  the  name  that  it  pleases  that  excellent  writer  to 
assume.  I  can  suggest  no  better  one  :  but  I  shoidd  have 
been  strongly  disposed,  if  I  had  been  left  to  my  own  devices, 
to  address  the  said  writer  as  a  woman.  I  have  observed 
what  seemed  to  me  such  womanly  touches  m  those  moving 
fictions,  that  the  assurance  on  the  title-page  is  insufiicient  to 
satisfy  me  even  now.  If  they  originated  with  no  woman,  I 
believe  that  no  man  ever  before  had  the  art  of  making  him- 
self mentally  so  like  a  woman  since  the  world  began. 

You  will  not  suppose  that  I  have  any  vulgar  wish  to 
fathom  your  secret.  I  mention  the  point  as  one  of  great 
interest  to  me  —  not  of  mere  curiosity.  If  it  should  ever 
suit  your  convenience  and  inclination  to  show  me  the  face 
of  the  man,  or  woman,  who  has  written  so  charmingly,  it 
will  be  a  verj'  memorable  occasion  to  me.     If  otherwise,  I 

1  [Perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  "  his  experience  as 
an  editor." —  Trans.] 


286         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

shall  always  hold  that  impalpable  personage  in  loving  attach- 
ment and  respect,  and  shall  yield  myself  up  to  all  future 
utterances  from  the  same  source,  with  a  perfect  contidence 
in  their  making  me  wiser  and  better. 

Your  obliged  and  faithful  servant  and  admirer, 

Charles  Dickens. 
George  Eliot,  Esq. 

Having  come  to  the  consciousness  of  her  genius, 
having  received  an  unanimous  vote  of  encourage- 
ment, and  having,  at  the  same  time,  hit  upon  a  vein 
of  literary  production  which  promised  to  bring  her 
modest  home  into  easy  circumstances,  George  Eliot 
began  work  on  a  larger  scale  almost  before  she 
had  finished  the  novel,  "  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life." 
"  Adam  Bede  "  was  already  begun  by  the  end  of 
1857  :  its  second  volume  was  written  at  ^lunich 
and  at  Dresden.  The  Leweses  were  passionately 
fond  of  travelling,  and  the  sale  of  the  previous 
book  had  been  sufficiently  profitable,  the  reception 
given  to  these  stories  by  the  public  sufficiently 
promising  for  the  future,  to  let  them  give  them- 
selves the  pleasure  of  making  acquaintance  with 
new  countries.  Besides,  they  resolved  to  work  and 
kept  their  resolve.  "Munich,"  she  writes,  "swarms 
with  professors  of  all  sorts,  all  grundlich,  of  course, 
and  one  or  two  of  them  great.  There  is  no  one  we 
are  more  charmed  with  than  Liebig."  Bodenstedt 
made  our  travellers  think  of  their  friend  Gruppe, 
at  Berlin,  by  the  multitude  of  his  acquirements  and 
the  variety  of  his  productions.     In  fact,  Bodenstedt 


GEOKGE   ELIOT  287 

was  a  traveller,  a  journalist,  a  professor,  and  the 
manager  of  a  theatre.  He  translated  from  Persian, 
from  Russian,  and  from  English  ;  he  wrote  a  great 
work  on  the  peoples  of  the  Caucasus  ;  he  paid 
special  attention  to  Shakespeare.  He  was  the 
author  of  plays,  of  novels,  of  a  volume  of  verses 
which  went  through  nearly  a  hundred  editions,  and 
he  crowned  the  whole  by  a  history  of  his  own  life. 
^•Enormously  instructed  after  the  fashion  of  the 
Germans,"  writes  George  Eliot,  "and  not  at  all 
stupid  with  it."  The  translator  of  the  "Leben 
Jesu  "  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Strauss  at 
Munich,  and  was  very  agreeably  impressed  by  him. 
"He  speaks  with  very  choice  words,  like  a  man 
strictly  truthful  in  the  use  of  language."  George 
Eliot  loved  the  arts,  music  most  of  all,  but  painting 
also,  and  she  naturally  bestowed  j)ai't  of  her  time 
on  the  galleries.  She  had  little  admiration  for  the 
modern  German  school.  "Kaulbach's  great  com- 
positions are  huge  charades."  "His  'Destruction 
of  Jerusalem  '  is  a  regular  child's  puzzle  of  symbol- 
ism." 

He  is  certainly  a  man  of  great  faculty,  but  is,  I  imagine, 
carried  out  of  his  true  path  by  the  ambition  to  produce 
"  Weltgeschichtliche  Bilder,"  which  the  German  critics 
may  go  into  raptures  about.  His  "Battle  of  the  Huns," 
which  is  the  most  impressive  of  all  his  great  pictures,  was 
the  first  of  the  series.  He  painted  it  simply  under  the 
inspiration  of  the  grand  myth  about  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
warriors  rising  and  carrying  on  the  battle  in  the  air. 
Straightway  the   German   critics  began  to  smoke  furiously 


< 


288         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

that  vile  tobacco  which  they  call  asthetik,  declared  it  a 
"  Weltgeschichtliches  Bild,"  and  ever  since  Kaulbach  has 
been  concoctinc;  these  pictures  in  which,  instead  of  taking 
a  single  moment  of  reality  and  trusting  to  the  inlinite  sym- 
bolism that  belongs  to  all  nature,  he  attempts  to  give  you 
at  one  view  a  succession  of  events  —  each  represented  by 
some  group  which  may  mean  '•  Whichever  you  please,  my 
little  dear." 

Our  author  might  have  added  that  it  is  the  same 
with  the  other  arts  ;  that  the  Germans,  loving  them 
only  in  an  intellectual  manner,  insist  on  thrusting 
scientific  elements  into  them  ;  that  even  poetry- 
pleases  Germans  better  when  they  find  in  it  matter 
for  comment  and  interpretation.  Tlie  worship 
paid  to  Goethe  by  his  countrymen  is  due  less  to 
his  really  perfect  works,  to  his  really  immortal 
creations,  than  to  the  endless  field  which  he  has 
opened  to  the  pedantry  of  scholiasts.  Is  there  a 
single  German  savant  who  is  not  more  attracted  by 
the  second  "  Faust  "  than  by  the  first  ? 

At  Dresden  our  travellers  resolved  to  make  no 
acquaintances,  and  to  work  wdth  no  other  distrac- 
tion than  the  picture-gallery,  the  open-air  concerts, 
and  excursions  on  foot.  "We  have  been  as  happy 
as  princes  —  are  not,  George  writing  at  the  far 
corner  of  the  great  salon,  I  at  my  Schrank  [desk] 
in  my  own  private  room  with  closed  doors.  Here 
I  wrote  the  latter  half  of  the  second  volume  of 
^Adam  Bede'  in  the  long  mornings  that  our  early 
hours,    rising   at   six   o'clock,    procure   us."      The 


GEORGE    ELIOT  289 

third  volume  Tvas  written  in  England,  after  return- 
ing from  the  journey,  and  straight  off:  this  was 
the  author's  way,  as  I  remember  hearing  her  say 
herself.  As  soon  as  ever  she  had  a  thorough  grasp 
of  her  subject,  or  rather  it  of  her,  she  did  her  writ- 
ing with  great  speed.  The  first  volume  of  "Adam 
Bede  "  was  hardly  revised  at  all  ;  and  her  husband's 
advice,  to  which  George  Eliot  always  attached 
great  value,  was  occupied  with  nothing  but  verbal 
alterations.  The  MS.  of  the  book  bears  a  dedica- 
tion which  attests  not  merely  the  gratitude  due 
for  useful  collaboration.  "To  my  dear  husband, 
George  Henry  Lewes,  I  give  the  MS.  of  a  work 
which  would  never  have  been  written  but  for  the 
happiness  which  his  love  has  conferred  on  my 
life."  She  did  the  same  with  all  her  books,  and 
inscribed  on  the  autograph  of  each  of  them  the 
touching  expression  of  her  gratitude  and  her 
tenderness  for  the  companion  of  her  life. 

George  Eliot's  readers  are,  I  believe,  agreed  that 
the  "  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  "  contain  the  germs  of 
the  beauties  of  all  the  author's  later  works  ;  but 
"  Adam  Bede  "  is  a  real  novel,  and  in  this  more 
extended  form  it  fulfilled  and  surpassed  the  expec- 
tation which  the  author's  early  work  had  excited. 
Moreover,  it  is  to  the  second  attempt  that  it  is 
usnal  to  remand  new-comers  in  letters  to  convince 
one's  self  that  the  first  success  has  been  something 
more  than  a  lucky  accident.  In  this  case  no  doubt 
was  possible,  and  men  had  an  indisputable  power 


200         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH  LITERATUllE 

/ 
before  them.     It  was  not  easy  to  know  which  to 

admire  most  —  the  pathetic  interest  of  Hetty  Sor- 
rel's fortunes  or  the  rustic  salt  of  the  sallies  of 
Mrs.  Poyser,  one  of  those  creations  which,  from 
the  first  moment,  take  their  place  in  the  literature 
of  a  nation.  It  was  but  a  few  weeks  after  the 
appearance  of  "Adam  Bede"  that  a  speaker  in 
the  House  of  Commons  quoted  one  of  the  genial 
farmer's  wife's  sayings  like  a  man  who  was  sure 
that  his  hearers  would  understand  him.  The  noise 
which  George  Eliot's  name  made  echoed  even  in 
France.  M.  Montegut  spoke  of  "  Adam  Bede  "  to 
the  readers  of  the  "Eevue  des  deux  Mondes,"  and  in 
this  article,  which  George  Eliot  thought  the  best 
of  all  that  had  been  devoted  to  her  novel,  our  col- 
league made  no  secret  of  his  enthusiasm.  "  Oh  ! 
what  delightful  and  refined  reading,"  said  he,  refer- 
ring to  the  "  Scenes  of  Clerical  Life."  "  One's  soul 
was  filled  with  it  as  with  a  perfume  of  sweetness 
and  piety  ;  one  was  not  seduced  into  admiration, 
one  was  taken  by  storm;  it  was  not  merely  mov- 
ing, it  was  affecting."  Then,  passing  to  "Adam 
Bede,"  and  after  extolling  the  combined  delicacy 
and  precision  of  the  observation,  the  often  exquis- 
ite style,  the  sympathetic,  and,  so  to  say,  luminous 
impartiality  which  sheds  itself  on  all  the  occupants 
of  the  stage,  he  said  :  "  Twelve  hundred  pages 
occupied  in  telling  of  the  seduction  of  a  girl  at  a 
farm  by  a  youthful  squire,  the  ill  luck  in  love  and 
the  happiness  in  marriage  of  a  poor  country  car- 


GEORGE  ELIOT  291 

penter  !  'tis  much,  you  will  say.  Well,  I  can  assure 
you  that  when  I  had  read  them  I  wanted  more. 
What  the  author  offers  us  is  a  huge  nosegay  of 
wild  flowers,  full  of  wealth  in  scent  and  color,  one 
of  those  nosegays  that  we  have  often  brought  home 
in  youth  after  a  country  excursion  and  delighted  iu 
preserving  for  several  days  after  in  a  large  vase  as 
a  souvenir  of  a  few  hours  of  reckless  activity  — 
thorny  branches  of  wild  eglantine  torn  from  the 
living  hedges,  flowering  brambles,  great  tufts  of 
lilac,  hand-broken  from  the  favorite  tree  of  spring, 
huge  bearded  grasses,  rushes  in  golden  bloom." 

I  am  the  more  glad  to  recall  M.  Montegut's  study 
that  it  remained  pretty  much  without  a  companion, 
in  French  criticism.  It  is  with  few  exceptions^ 
the  only  piece  of  cordial  praise  that  this  illustrious 
lady  has  received  in  our  country.  Most  of  the 
judgments  of  her  works  which  at  long  intervals 
have  appeared  in  our  reviews  have  shown  either 
the  disdain  of  a  jaded  taste,  or  (which  is  worse) 
the  reluctance  of  envy,  especially  feminine  envy,  to 
recognize  a  superiority  by  the  side  of  which,  it  is 
true,  the  commonplaces  of  the  day  seem  more  com- 
monplace than  ever. 

Dickens  was  again  one  of  the  first  to  express  his 

1  [Among  the  exceptions,  of  course,  are  the  two  earlier  articles 

•  of  M.  Scherer's  own,  which  appear  in  this  book.    I  do  not  know 

whose  was  the  "  feminine  "  jealousy  glanced  at  below.   The  above 

sample  of  M.  ^Nloutegut  is  a  good  deal  more  flowery  than  is  his 

wont.  —  Trans.] 


292        ESSAYS   ON  ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

admiration.  The  reading  of  "Adam  Bede,"  he 
wrote  to  the  author,  was  an  event  in  his  life. 
Herbert  Spencer  was  enthusiastic,  declaring  that 
he  felt  a  better  man  for  having  read  the  book  ;  but 
George  Eliot's  head  was  not  turned.  "  I  sing  my 
Magnificat  under  my  breath,"  she  said,  "and  I 
feel  great  delight,  deep  and  silent.  But  few  writers, 
I  think,  have  known  less  than  I  have  of  the  trans- 
ports and  the  feelings  of  triumph  which  they 
describe  as  the  result  of  success."  It  was  from 
this  time  that  she  contracted  the  repugnance  to 
speaking  and  hearing  speak  about  her  books  which 
became  a  note  of  her  literary  life,  and  which  had 
already  made  her  intrust  Lewes  with  the  duty  of 
intercepting  reviews  in  newspapers,  whether  lauda- 
tory or  the  reverse.  "If  people  were  to  hum 
their  remarks  or  their  comments  round  me,  I 
should  lose  the  calm  mind  and  the  honest  labor 
without  which  nothing  good  and  wholesome  can  be 
written.  To  talk  about  my  works  is  to  me  as 
though  I  were  to  talk  of  my  private  thoughts  or 
my  religion."  Moreover  she  felt  the  obligations 
of  success,  and  was  nervous  about  a  new  novel 
just  begun.  "^Adam's  '  good  fortune,"  she  said  to 
her  publisher,  "makes  me  write  more  anxiously 
than  ever.  I  fancy  it  is  a  kind  of  feeling  of  respon- 
sibility joined  to  a  good  deal  of  pride." 

We  need  not  follow  out  the  history  of  George 
Eliot's  works.  Quite  contrary  to  the  ordinary  fate 
of  the  works  of  a  writer  who  has  at  once  gained 


GEORGE   ELIOT  293 

the  public  vote,  and  to  the  fate  of  novelists  more 
especially,  because  they  draw  more  and  more 
deeply  on  their  fund  of  experience  and  observa- 
tion—  the  public  at  each  new  book  of  George 
Eliot's,  even  while  regretting,  so  to  say,  its  infi- 
delity to  the  earlier  ones,  could  not  keep  proclaim- 
ing the  superiority  of  the  new-comer.  "  The  Mill 
on  the  Floss,"  which  appeared  in  1860,  might  be 
looked  upon  as  the  author's  master-piece  if  "Mid- 
dlemarch,"  ten  years  later,  had  not  contested  that 
title  with  it,  and  if  there  had  not  appeared  in  the 
interval  "  Silas  Marner,"  an  admirable  rustic  idyl, 
and  the  historical  romance  of  "Eomola,"  which 
was  destined  to  show  George  Eliot  equal  to  herself 
in  all  the  styles  she  tried.  Even  "  Deronda,"  her 
last  story,  spoilt  as  it  is  by  inexplicable  preoccu-  s 
pations,  includes  passages  equal  in  poAver  to  any-  } 
thino;  that  the  author  has  done. 

The  scene  of  "  Eomola  "  is  the  Florence  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  and  the  plan  of  it  came  to  George 
Eliot  in  the  course  of  an  Italian  journey,  "one  of 
those  journeys  which  seem  to  divide  one's  life  in 
half,  so  many  new  ideas  do  they  suggest,  so  many 
new  sources  of  interest  do  they  open  to  the  mind." 
Having  fixed  on  her  scheme,  she  returned  to  Flor- 
ence, visiting  the  old  streets,  rummaging  ancient 
books,  seeking  to  impregnate  herself  with  the 
spirit  of  the  venerable  city.  But  she  was  still  far 
from  her  goal.  When,  on  her  return  home,  she  at 
last  set  to  her  work,  she  saw  all  its  difficulties  rising 


294         ESSAYS   ON    ENGLISH   LlTERATUllE 

before  her.  Would  not  her  genius  desert  her  wlien 
she  left  the  familiar  scenes  of  rustic  life  in  the 
England  of  to-day  for  foreign  countries  and  past 
ages  ?  Would  she  succeed  in  reviving  in  their  true 
physiognomy  the  town,  the  epoch,  and  the  figure 
of  Savonarola?  She  despaired  more  than  once, 
gave  up  her  task,  then  took  to  it  again,  plunged 
(conscientiously  as  she  did  everything)  into  his- 
torical studies,  and  brought  forth  in  sorrow  a  kind 
of  moral  tragedy  which  even  the  reader  cannot 
behold  without  emotion.  It  seemed  as  if  a  weight 
were  crushing  her  down.  Each  phrase,  she  said, 
had  been  written  in  her  heart's  blood.  '^  I  began 
the  novel  a  young  woman,"  she  added  ;  "  I  was  an 
old  one  when  I  finished  it.''  Yet  it  had  only  taken 
her  eighteen  months  to  write.  Either  owing  to 
the  pains  she  had  taken  in  the  writing  of  it,  or 
to  the  moral  importance  which  she  attached  to  the 
drawing  of  the  characters  whereof  she  composed 
her  picture,  George  Eliot  seems  to  have  had  for 
"  Eomola  "  a  partiality  which  I  find  some  difficulty 
in  sharing. 

I  only  mention  the  two  volumes  of  George 
Eliot's  poetry  for  the  sake  of  not  omitting  them  ; 
because,  fine  as  some  passages  are  in  their  pathos 
or  in  their  wit,  and  deeply  interesting  as  they  all 
are  regarded  as  experiments,  these  poems  add 
nothing  to  the  author's  reputation  save  by  complet- 
ing the  proof  of  the  variety  of  her  gifts. 

An  author's  works,  it  has  often  been  said,  are 


GEORGE   ELIOT  295 

the  true  events  of  his  life.  Putting  aside  the 
books  I  have  just  named,  there  is  nothing  to  note 
in  George  Eliot's  later  years  except  a  continually 
increasing  fame,  the  respect  which  a  blameless  life 
won  her,  affluence  which  became  riches,  frequent 
travels  both  abroad  and  in  England;  and  lastly, 
what  is  not  given  necessarily  either  by  glory  or  by 
fortune,  a  happiness  of  which  she  herself  said  in  a 
letter,  "Altogether  we  are  dangerously  happy."  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  a  ransom  to  pay  to  fate, 
and  she  well  knew  also  that  old  age,  sooner  or 
later,  takes  on  itself  the  duty  of  levying  this  tax 
by  parting  those  who  love.  Lewes  died  in  1878. 
As  we  have  already  remarked,  she  married  again 
less  than  eighteen  months  later,  her  husband  being 
a  man  who  was  much  younger  than  herself,  but 
whose  affection  had  touched  her,  and  the  delicacy 
of  whose  sentiijients  made  him  worthy  of  her.  The 
happiness  she  found  in  this  new  union  was  of  no 
long  duration,  and  she  died  within  the  year  from 
the  result  of  a  chill.  She  was  sixty -one,  but  had 
as  yet  shown  none  of  the  infirmities  of  age.  She 
loved  life,  she  had  said  to  one  of  her  friends  a 
little  before  ;  she  was  full  of  plans,  and  then  the 
world  was  so  interesting. 

The  engraved  portrait  which  Mr.  Cross  has  placed 
as  a  frontispiece  to  his  wife's  biography  is  as  like 
as  the  reproduction  of  a  singularly  expressive  face 
can  be.  George  Eliot's  features,  a  little  heavy  and 
strongly  marked  in  their  frame  of  abundant  hair, 


296         ESSAYS    ON    EXGLTSn   LITERATURE 

expressed  a  soul  which  is  in  command  of  itself,  a 
great  intelligence  which  has  remained  kindly. 
One  felt  in  them  the  union  of  timidity,  which  is 
driven  back  into  itself,  with  an  affectionate  need 
of  sympathy.  The  entire  personality  was  gentle, 
distinguished,  suited  to  gain  confidence  and  inspire 
respect. 

The  moral  unity  of  George  Eliot's  character  is  not 
easy  to  fix.  Not  that  I  take  her  literally  when  she 
calls  herself  a  chameleon,  and  says  she  is  in  danger 
of  losing  her  personality.  My  difficulty  comes  from 
her  very  depth.  "What  we  see  in  George  Eliot's 
maturity  is  a  great  and  beautiful  soul,  clear  and 
calm,  which  has  known  or  guessed,  felt  or  antici- 
pated, the  feeling  of  everything.  But  at  what  price 
has  she  bought  this  dominion  of  reason  over  pas- 
sion, this  ascendency  of  reflection  over  spontaneity? 
Is  it  not  probable  that  the  "  Life"  was  not  allowed 
to  tell  us  everything?  Is  it  not  permissible  to  be- 
lieve that  the  history  of  Maggie  in  "  The  Mill  on 
the  Eloss  "  was  an  inspiration  of  memory?  And 
is  it  not  natural  to  suppose  that  personal  experience 
counted  for  something  in  the  final  self-possession, 
and  in  such  an  intimate  knowledge  of  life? 

In  studying  such  a  character  as  that  of  George 
Eliot  the  danger  is  lest  we  should  mistake  this  ac- 
quired empire  over  impulse  for  a  natural  want  of 
warmth.  Indeed,  more  people  than  one  have  been 
the  dupes  of  this  mistake,  and  have  wondered  at  the 
absence  of  fire  and  "  go  "  in  the  letters  wliich  have 


GEOr.GE   ELIOT  297 

been  given  to  US.  This  was  to  forget  the  conditions 
of  Mr.  Cross's  publication,  but  it  was  also  to  mis- 
judge the  intellectual  and  moral  history  of  George 
Eliot.  She  had  known  what  impetuosity  is.  "I 
love,"  she  wrote  at  tliirty,  "souls  which  hurry 
towards  their  end,  carried  on  the  springtide  of  sen- 
timent, and  not  harassed  by  perpetual  negations." 
Twenty  years  later,  and  we  find  her  fearing  to 
come  to  a  conclusion  too  quickly,  and  to  show  her- 
self more  positive  than  inner  light  allows.  "I 
dread  all  positive  assertion  on  matters  of  great  im- 
portance, through  fear  of  committing  myself  by  my 
own  words,  and  of  degenerating  into  a  mere  echo  of 
myself.  A  horrible  destiny,  yet  one  of  which,  it 
must  be  confessed,  many  and  great  men  have  been 
the  victims."  Here  we  have  the  two  things,  the 
carrying  away  and  the  reaction.  Serenity  spreads 
itself  over  this  life,  but  the  hidden  emotion,  the 
throb  below,  do  not  fail  to  betray  themselves  still. 
A  book,  the  sight  of  a  picture,  will  often  bring 
tears  to  her  eyes.  Or  it  may  be  gaiety  which  breaks 
out;  for,  grave  as  we  fancy  her,  she  was  none  the 
less  capable,  her  biographer  tells  us,  of  the  frankest 
hilarity,  of  joyous,  catching,  irresistible  laughter. 
Literary  predilections  are  telltales  of  character, 
and  for  this  reason  we  may  collect  George  Eliot's. 
She  calls  Milton  her  demigod,  and  we  see  in  this  a 
soul  inclined  towards  things  serious  and  sublime. 
In  the  same  Avay,  Wordsworth  ranks  high  in  her 
affections.     Yet  this  does   not   prevent   her   from 


298         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 

adoring  Molière,  ^'our  great  favorite,"  she  writes. 
"  We  are  not  reading  him  just  now,  but  we  are  con- 
stantly talking  of  him.  The  'Misanthrope'  seems 
to  me  the  greatest  and  most  complete  production 
of  its  kind  in  existence."  On  the  other  hand, 
she  holds  Byron  "the  most  vulgar-minded  genius 
who  has  ever  produced  a  great  effect  in  literature." 
Nor  let  us  forget  her  admiration  for  the  works  of 
Comte,  which  was  sincere,  though  the  expression  of 
-.'.  vas  perhaps  exaggerated  by  the  desire  of  pleasing 
her  friends  Mr.  Congre ve  and  Mr.  Harrison,  who 
evidently  wished  to  make  a  convert  of  lier.  In 
writing  to  others,  she  confessed  that  Positivism 
seemed  to  her  narroV  and  exclusive  ;  while,  as  for 
the  religion  which  was  grafted  on  Comte' s  philos- 
ophy, she  subscribed  to  the  scheme,  but  avoided 
becoming  a  member. 

We  have  already  seen  that  one  distinguishing 
point  of  George  Eliot's  mind  was  a  very  rare  com- 
bination of  intellectual  boldness  and  religious  sen- 
sibility. She  was  absolutely  honest  in  examination, 
and  to  her  all  questions  were  open  questions .  "  You 
ask  if  I  am  ready  to  allow  myself  to  be  convinced. 
Most  certainly  ;  I  admit  discussion  on  every  matter 
except  dinner  and  debts.  I  hold  that  the  first  must 
be  eaten  and  the  second  must  be  paid  :  these  are  my 
only  prejudices."  But  this  rationalizing  tempera- 
ment did  not  exclude  a  certain  mysticism  of  the 
kind  which,  according  to  herself,  belongs  to  all 
poetic  souls,  "  the  delight  with  which  the  soul  bathes 
in  emotions  exceeding  the  precision  of  thought." 


GEORGE   ELIOT  299 

She  felt  sympathy  for   all   the  great  historical 
religions,  especially  Judaism  and  Christianity,  as 
monuments  of  struggles  similar  to  our  own.     If  she 
had  followed  her  inclination  she  would  often  have 
gone  into  those  religious  assemblies,  the  essence  of 
which  is  the  recognition  of  a  spiritual  law,  appealing 
to  our  voluntary  obedience  and  ready  to  deliver  us 
from  the  tyranny  of  capricious   impulses  and  un- 
tamed passions.     It  is  true  that  when  she  has  got 
as  far  as  this  rationalism  reappears  and  resumes  the 
upper  hand.     AMiat  is  it  that  these  believers  who 
meet  to   worship  God  worship  under   that   name? 
What  but  the  loftiest  possible  conception  of  good? 
So  far  is  it,  according  to  our  author,  from  being 
true  that  morality  derives  from  religion,  that  the 
religious  ideapar  excellence,  the  idea  of  God,  merely 
personifies  the  moral  idea  of  some  nation  or  some 
time.     This  is  why  theology  transforms  itself,  why 
religions  succeed  each  other  in  proportion  as  hu- 
manity perfects  itself.     And  this  perfectibility  of 
religions  is  a  thesis  big  with  consequences.  ^  For 
if  we  give  to  the  notion   of   the    Supreme  Being  a 
connotation  so  variable  and  so  extensive  as  that  of 
moral  emotion,  we  come  to  the  identification  of  God 
with  humanity,  to  making  piety  consist  in  reflecting 
tenderly  on  the  mystery  of  mortal  fate,  to  reducing 
the  science  of  life  to  two  elements  only,  commis- 
eration for  the  fate  of  other  men,  and  for  ourselves, 
"  that  consent  to  the  inevitable  which  submits  to  it 
without  bitterness  and  is  called  resignation."^ 


300         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

Unsubstantial  as  George  Eliot's  religion  may 
seem,  nothing  made  further  breach  in  it.  She  re- 
mained i)ersuaded  that  if  human  actions  do  not 
escape  the  universal  cliain  of  cause  and  effect,  this 
character  of  necessity  does  not  affect  their  moral 
quality,  does  not  diminish  their  ugliness  or  their 
beauty,  and  consequently  cannot  weaken  our  mo- 
tives for  preferring  one  to  another.  Besides,  one 
last  link  continued  to  attach  George  Eliot  to  mys- 
tical tradition,  and  to  that  idealist  and  romantic 
period  of  humanity  which  contemporary  naturalism 
is  at  work  to  destroy.  She  had  read  Darwin's  works 
with  interest;  but  she  does  not  seem  to  have  grasped 
or  to  have  accepted  their  whole  bearing.  She  saw 
in  them  only  the  idea  of  evolution.  "Now,"  says 
she,  "  this  theory,  like  all  the  other  explanations  of 
the  way  in  which  things  have  come  into  existence, 
affects  me  little  as  compared  with  the  mystery  which 
is  at  the  bottom  of  existence  itself.  "  And  so  behind 
the  fact  she  looks  for  something  else  than  the  fact  ; 
she  raises  the  questions  which  cannot  be  answered  ; 
she  is  of  those  who,  as  Schiller  says,  ^  want  to  know 
why  ten  is  not  twelve. 

George  Eliot  cannot  be  ranked  among  modern 
adepts  in  pessimism.  She  does  not  look  on  life  as 
bad  in  itself  —  she  is  only,  as  it  were,  oppressed 
with  the  difficulties  of  the  struggle,  with  the  ugli- 
nesses and  the  sufferings  of  humanity.  She  was 
disposed  to  believe  with  the  ancients  that  those  are 
1  Die  Weltioeiscn. 


GEORGE   ELIOT  301 

happiest  "vvlio  die  yoimg  ;  and,  as  we  have  just  seen, 
she  brought  herself  to  place  the  highest  virtue  in 
resignation,  or,  as  she  also  calls  it,  "the  courage 
Avhich  can  do  without  narcotics,  the  fortitude  which 
supports  evils  with  full  consciousness  of  them,  and 
with  eyes  wide  open."  This  want  of  trust  in  hu- 
man destiny  is  such  that  George  Eliot  will  not  yield 
to  the  ideas  of  social  progress  which  have  seized  so 
tyrannously  on  the  modern  spirit  ;  she  is  too  thor- 
oughly persuaded  that  happiness  is  above  all  a  moral 
state  to  expect  much  of  institutions  ;  and  improve- 
ment seems  to  her  likely  to  be  less  the  necessary 
effect  of  intellectual  culture  than  the  fruit  of  a  slow 
contagion  of  good. 

If  I  insist  on  the  kind  of  pitifulness  with  which 
George  Eliot  considers  our  earthly  state,  it  is  be- 
cause this  disposition  is  what  in  reality  constitutes 
the  main  principle  of  her  art.  :  All  great  wit  draws 
inspiration  from  some  philosophy  or  other,  and  the 
philosophy  of  George  Eliot  is  a  gently  sad  one.  > 
There  reigns  in  it  what  Wordsworth,  in  a  beautiful  ? 
line,  calls 

The  stiU,  sad  music  of  linmanity, 

the  melancholy  note  which  human  destiny  gives  out. 
She  does  not  aspire  to  paint  irreproachable  char- 
acters, but  characters  in  which  good  and  evil  are 
mixed,  which  call  for  indulgence,  for  which  we 
feel  attachment  even  while  we  condemn  them.  To 
speak  more  correctly,  she  does  not  aspire  to  any- 


302         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATUKE 

j^  thing;  she  does  not  pursue  any  end;  she  is  too  great 

an  artist  for  that.  With  her  serious  and  moral 
nature  she  ran  the  risk  of  becoming  a  moralizer; 
with  her  sympathy  for  the  faults  and  the  foibles  of 
her  kind,  inclination  must  have  carried  her  towards 
the  didactic.  But  she  knows  the  danger,  and  re- 
mains on  her  guard  against  it.  If  art,  she  thinks, 
has  its  lessons,  they  are  the  lessons  of  life  itself, 
which  art  reproduces  in  its  truth  and  its  com^^lexity. 
"  When  it  ceases  to  be  purely  oesthetic,  when  it  tries 
to  prove  instead  of  painting,  it  becomes  the  most 
disgusting  of  all  teachings."  And  in  a  remarkable 
letter  written  to  the  painter  Burne- Jones  :  — 

Don't  you  agree  with  me  that  much  superfluous  stuff  is 
written  on  all  sides  about  purpose  in  art  ?  A  nasty  mind 
makes  nasty  art,  whether  for  art  or  any  other  sake  ;  and  a 
meagre  mind  will  bring  forth  what  is  meagre.  And  some 
effect  in  determining  other  minds  there  must  be,  according 
to  the  degree  of  nobleness  or  meanness  in  the  selection 
made  by  the  artist's  soul. 

It  was  not  with  her  ethics  that  George  Eliot  wrote 
/  her  novels,  it  was  with  her  psychology;  and  in  this 
\  lies  the  secret  of  her  power.  This  woman,  who 
lived  an  exemplary  life  in  a  narrow  world,  had  en- 
tered into  all  things,  had  felt  all  things.  Nothing 
astonished  her,  accustomed  as  she  was  to  read  her 
own  heart,  and  gifted  with  the  faculty  of  observa- 
tion, whicli  helps  one  to  read  the  hearts  of  others. 
She  is  at  home  with  the  most  secret  and  the  subtlest 
entanglements  of  motives.     She  knows  that  "  a  na- 


GEOEGE   ELIOT  303 

ture  incapable  by  virtue  of  its  whole  moral  consti- 
tution of  committing  a  crime  may  yet  experience 
criminal  motives."     I  find  this  striking  expression 
from  her  pen  :  '•  In  the'  most  absolute  confidence  of 
man  and  wife  there  is  always  a  residue  of  secrecy, 
an  unsuspected  lower  depth  :   it  may  be  of  the  worst, 
it  may  be,  on  the  other  hand,  of  the  loftiest  and 
most  disinterested."      George  Eliot  possesses  the 
clairvoyance  which  divines  the  interior  play  of  pas- 
sion, the  experience  which  knows  that  the  human 
being  is  capable  of  all  contradictions,  the  indul- 
gence which  tolerates  because  it  understands  ;  and 
lastly,  the  gift  of  measure  and  the  taste  for  truth 
which  prevent  an  author   from   rushing  into  ex- 
tremes, from  idealizing  either  the  beautiful  or  the 
ugly,  from  making  figures  which  are  heroes  or  mon- 
sters in  block.     If  we  add  to  psychological  divina- 
tion the  faculty  of  creating  living  characters,  we 
shall  have  George  Eliot's  novel.     When  she  was 
still  very  young  —  in  1848  —  she  defined  the  talent 
of  which  she  was  later   to  give  such  memorable 
examples.     "Artistic  power,"  she  said,  "seems  to 
me  to  resemble  dramatic  power;  it  is  the  intuition 
of  the  different  states  of  which  the  human  mind 
is  capable  of  taking,   accompanied  by  the  faculty 
of  reproducing  them  with  a  certain  intensity  of 
expression." 

The  dramatic  art  in  George  Eliot's  works  comes 
from  her  living  conception  of  x^^rsonages.  The 
strength  with  which   the   moral  coherence   of   the 


304         ESSAYS    ON    ENGLISH    LITEIlATUllE 

beings  she  has  called  into  existence  and  the  conduct 
of  a  story  determined  by  the  development  of  these 
characters  impose  themselves  on  her  is  so  great  that 
she  forfeits  the  freedom  with  which  authors  usually 
control  their  work.  She  was  unable  to  make  any 
change  in  it.  The  intuition  to  which  she  sought  to 
give  body  and  life  took  such  complete  possession  of 
her  that  she  seemed  to  become  a  mere  instrument 
and  to  obey  a  superior  force.  There  is  in  "Mid- 
dlemarch  "  a  famous  scene  —  an  explanation  between 
two  women  —  Avhich  forms  one  of  the  turning  points 
of  the  novel.  George  Eliot  used  to  tell  how  the 
scene  was  done.  She  knew  that  the  two  characters 
must  meet  sooner  or  later,  and  that  there  Avould  then 
be  an  explosion;  but  she  had  avoided  thinking  of 
it  up  to  the  moment  when  she  had  to  bring  them 
face  to  face.  And  then,  giving  herself  up  to  the 
inspiration  of  the  moment,  she  wrote  the  narrative 
as  we  have  it  now,  without  a  change,  without  a 
cancel,  in  an  extraordinary  state  of  agitation,  and, 
as  it  were,  entirely  dominated  by  the  sentiments 
which  she  had  to  express.  Her  pen  galloped,  not  as 
a  result  of  haste  or  desire  to  have  done,  but  because 
the  hand  which  held  it  obeyed  an  emotion.  "  Writ- 
ing," said  George  Eliot,  "  is  to  me  a  kind  of  religion, 
and  I  cannot  trace  a  word  unless  it  comes  from 
within."  Yet  she  did  not  wish  to  hold  herself  out 
as  a  pattern,  for  she  added,  "But  I  think  that  the 
best  books  in  existence  have  all  been  written  simply 
to  make  money." 


GEORGE   ELIOT  305 

The  triitli  is  that  the  inspiration  nnder  the  sway 
of  which  George  Eliot  worked  mnst  not  be  confused 
with  the  purely  subjective  and  personal  ardor  of 
the  novelist  who  lends  to  his  characters  the  passions 
which  he  himself  feels.  She  was  rather  of  the 
opinion  of  Diderot,  who  asserted  that  the  great  actor 
remains  master  of  himself,  and  calculates  by  reflec- 
tion the  manner  in  which  he  ought  to  read  a  char- 
acter or  a  situation.^  The  emotion  which  she  felt 
when  writing  was  that  of  the  very  personages  whom 
she  put  on  the  stage,  and  into  whom  she  transformed 
herself.  Her  soul  was  engaged  in  the  game  ;  she 
palpitated,  yet  not  on  her  own  account,  if  I  may  say 
so  ;  she  palpitated  in  harmony  with  the  diverse  sen- 
timents which  the  situation  brought  about.  The 
author,  by  dint  of  her  psychological  penetration  and 
her  power  of  sympathy,  identified  herself  by  turns 
with  the  most  diverse  situations,  with  the  most 
contrary  passions.  And  it  is  in  this  sense  only  —  it 
is  because  she  thus  blended  herself  with  her  crea- 
tions, and  devoted  all  the  warmth  of  her  nature  to 
their  complete  realization,  that  she  may  be  said  to 
have  written  with  her  soul. 

It  seems  to  me  that  we  have  now  before  us 
almost  all  the  elements  of  George  Eliot's  talent  — 
conscientious  research  and  mature  reflection  in  the 
preparation  of  work;  the  depth  of  moral  intuition 
which  creates  true  and  coherent  character;  the 
interest  of  an  action  which  starts  from  these  pri- 
1  [In  his  famous  Paradoxe  sur  le  Comédien. —  Trans.] 


30G         ESSAYS    ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

mary  conceptions;  the  dramatic  force  which  re- 
sults from  the  combined  suppleness  and  vivacity 
of  sentiment  with  which  the  author  takes  up  the 
part  of  her  different  characters;  and,  lastly,  the 
sincerity  of  an  artist  passionately  in  love  with 
truth.  But  I  am  wrong,  for,  indeed,  to  make  this 
analysis  complete,  we  must  add  dramatic  incident, 
picturesque  description,  and  tliose  two  great  facul- 
ties which  seem  mutually  exclusive,  and  which  are 
here  at  once  combined  and  carried  to  an  extraordi- 
nary pitch  of  power  —  the  pathos  which  draws 
tears  from  the  driest  eyes,  and  the  most  abundant, 
the  most  amusing,  the  most  original  comedy. 

It  is  a  union  of  these  two  conditions  of  art,  the 
fusion  of  the  elements  in  the  flame  of  the  sacred 
fire,  which  assures  to  George  Eliot  so  high  a  place 
as  a  novelist,  and  among  the  highest  class  of  novel- 
ists. There  are  illustrious  types  in  the  telling  of 
tales,  such  as  Defoe,  Alexandre  Dumas,  and  Dick- 
ens; in  the  painting  of  manners,  such  as  Balzac 
and  Thackeray;  in  the  eloquent  delineation  of  pas- 
sions, such  as  Eousseau  and  George  Sand;  while 
there  has  been  founded  in  our  days,  not  without 
some  success,  a  new  school,  which  subordinates 
everything  else  to  elaborate  skill  of  description. 
But  is  it  not  true  that  the  highest  power  in  any  art 
is  that  which  creates  personages  so  lively,  true, 
and  individual  that  we  carry  away  with  us  an  indel- 
ible memory  of  them  just  as  if  we  had  met  them 
in  the  paths  of  daily  life?     Is  it  not  true  that  here 


GEORGE   ELIOT  307 

lies  tlie  ch-ief  gift  of  superior  genius,  the  most  sub- 
stantial enriclinient  of  a  literature?  I  only  know 
one  of  tlie  novelist's  gifts  wliicb.  is  wanting  to 
George  Eliot.  You  must  not  look  in  lier  pages 
for  the  troubles,  the  excitements,  the  disorders  of 
love.  She  could  neither  have  written  the  "Xou- 
velle  Héloïse "  nor  "Dominique."  A  woman  can- 
not sketch  a  man's  passions,  because  she  cannot 
feel  them;  and  as  for  painting  those  of  her  own 
sex,  she  would  have  to  begin  by  unsexing  herself 
to  dare  to  take  the  public  into  confidence  as  to  the 
last  secrets  of  the  feminine  heart.  "Women  may 
write  novels  —  novels  better  than  those  of  men, 
but  not  the  same.  Genius  in  their  hands  meets 
with,  "  Thus  far  and  no  farther." 

A  good  deal  has  been  said  about  realism  in  con- 
nection with  George  Eliot's  novels.  Indeed,  M. 
Montegut's  article,  which  has  been  referred  to 
above,  bore  as  its  general  title  "On  the  Eealist 
Xovel  in  England."  And  it  is  true  enough  that 
our  author's  talent  is  distinguished  by  a  certain 
fancy  for  painting  common  life,  even  commonplace 
life,  and  by  the  truth  with  which  the  details  of 
this  painting  are  followed  out.  "  The  Mill  on  the 
Eloss  "  could,  in  this  respect,  but  strengthen  the 
impressions  which  "  Adam  Bede  "  had  left.  "  Eom- 
ola,"  on  the  other  hand,  and  "  Middlemarch  "  are 
there  to  show  that  the  author  was  not  absolutely 
condemned  to  the  minutiae  of  Dutch  painting. 
Besides  it  is  but  an  awkward  word,  this  term  of 


308         ESSAYS   ON   ENGLISH   LITERATURE 

realism,  wliicli  gives  those  wlio  use  it  the  air  of 
setting  against  each  other  things  which  are  differ- 
ent, hut  not  contrary  —  the  admiration  inspired  by 
the  beautiful  and  the  interest  aroused  by  the  true. 
The  beautiful  is  nature  selected,  magnilied,  gener- 
alized; the  true  is  the  same  nature  seen  as  close  as 
possible,  with  every  feature  of  its  physiognomy, 
every  detail  of  character,  revealed  by  an  observa- 
tion which  has  set  its  heart  on  being  exact.  Hence 
the  human  mind  has  tAvo  simultaneous  and  legiti- 
mate enjoyments  —  the  delight  which  the  soul  feels 
in  suppressing  time,  extending  space,  opening 
glimpses  of  the  infinite,  and  the  kind  of  fascina- 
tion which  is  exercised  on  us  by  nature,  thanks 
to  her  unexpectedness,  her  sovereignty,  her  very 
unreason,  the  impossibility  which  we  feel  in  the 
attempt  to  bring  her  all  under  the  law  of  our 
thoughts.  There  is  nothing  here  that  is  great  or 
small,  beautiful  or  ugly.  It  is  the  fact  qua  fact 
which  disturbs  or  attracts  us,  and  we  are  grateful 
to  the  artist  who,  by  dint  of  his  truthfulness, 
acquaints  us  with  new  aspects  of  things. 

George  Eliot's  style  is  not  irreproachable.  It 
becomes,  as  has  been  observed,  artificial  by  dint 
of  wish  to  avoid  the  commonplace,  and  stiff  by 
dint  of  condensation  of  thought.  Happily  she  has 
divided  herself  in  her  novels,  keeping  clearness  in 
her  narrative  and  naturalness  in  her  dialogue,  and 
reserving  loaded  phrase  and  abstract  terminology 
for  her  reflections.    The  faults  of  her  didactic  style 


GEORGE   ELIOT  309 

are,  as  it  were,  aggravated  and  crowded  together  in 
the  last  work  she  published,  certain  "Characters," 
after  the  fashion  of  Theophrastus  and  La  Bruyère, 
a  volume  without  grace  and  without  taste,  abso- 
lutely out  of  place  in  the  total  of  her  work.     The 
finest  and  most  perfect  genius   not  only  has   its 
limits,  but  its  hidden  vices  ;  the  purest  metal  has 
its  alloy.    "Felix  Holt"  is  weak,  the  Jewish  story 
in  "Daniel  Deronda"  spoilt  a  novel  Avhich  gave 
promise   of  yielding  to  none    of    its    forerunners, 
and  "Theophrastus  Such"  is  simply  unreadable. 
Everything  else,  novel  or  short  story,  is  a  pure  mas- 
terpiece, and,  as  is  proper  to  masterpieces,  leaves 
nothing    to    desire,    and   nothing  to  regret.     The 
name  of  Shakespeare  has  sometimes  been  uttered  in 
speaking   of    George   Eliot,    an   hyperbole  which 
ceases  to  be  shocking  if  we  limit  the  terms  of  com- 
parison to  the  creation  of  characters.     But  I  had 
rather  indorse,  though  here  also  with  the  necessary 
distinctions,    the   judgment   of   Lord  Acton,  that 
George  Eliot  is  the  most  considerable  literary  per- 
sonality  that    has    appeared   since   the   death  of 
Goethe. 

March  1885.  j^^S^  ^^^^^A^i. 

UNIVEBSITir 

Typography  by  J.  S.  dishing  &  Co.,  Boston. 
Presswork  by  Berwick  &  Smith,  Boston. 


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